


like a magnet on a compass

by sporklift



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Coming Out, Compulsory Heterosexuality, Couch Surfing, Honestly ya’ll this is a songfic in a trenchcoat, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Richie Tozier-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2020-11-07 21:04:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 40,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20823782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sporklift/pseuds/sporklift
Summary: Just because Richie's gay doesn't mean he's willing todoanything about it.In which Richie Tozier comes clean.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A few things for housekeeping: 
> 
> Although I took some things from the book (the name of Richie's manager, for one) all characterizations of all characters are based firmly in the movies. 
> 
> While I did my best to research, there isn’t a ton of readily googleable information about the world of stand-up comedy in 2016, especially in the behind-the-scenes sense that the fic deals with. Therefore, I have taken some creative liberties. 
> 
> While no set archive warnings apply, please heed the tags. This fic deals with internalized homophobia and compulsory heterosexuality. **The f-slur will come up**, although implotted in a way that is, I hope, not gratuitous. 
> 
> That's about it. Without further ado, I hope enjoy the first chapter!

Richie can remember, vaguely, what it was like at the beginning. The late nights, the beer-sticky bartops at the open-mics. Remembers being nineteen and so hungover on top of his Telecom textbook, scribbling down jokes in the margins of his notes. He remembers coming down from the stage after a particularly satisfying set at the local dive. Remembers someone thrusting a white business card into his hands. 

“You’re pretty good,” they’d said to him. “Call us if you want a rep.”

And, when he’d looked into them, they were legit. 

Then he’d sat down with them and they’d told him he could have it all. That he was a great performer and have him an opening slot in a bigger venue with another, more established dude-comedian. (More established, as Richie can recall, doesn’t necessarily mean _ funny. _. It actually meant thirty and depressed.) When his first set hadn’t gone as well as he’d hoped, an old guy in a suit named Stuart Ullman sat him down and said, “You’ve got a great energy, kid. Wonderful delivery. But your stuff’s a bit--raw. We’ll have our people tweak it a little before your show.” 

The next time he’d opened, people were rolling in the seats. He walked out on the stage and didn’t tell him to fuck off or blame him for wanting attention. They listened. They liked him. 

It was fucking addictive, right from the get-go. 

So, what else was Richie supposed to do? He’d dropped out of college. He’d moved to L.A. He started headlining on his own. He’d smoke weed with Ullman’s assistant, Steve, and put his blinders on. 

It didn’t even matter how, most of the time, it was all some big act. A little hokey. Very plastic. Because people came. They laughed. Sure, he was a big loser in dirty jeans and an open Hawaiian shirt. But the audience didn’t care what his deal was, so long as he could make them laugh. And that, he could always do.

So. It was fine. 

It's been fine for twenty years. 

* * *

**Los Angeles **

Richie’s been around the block enough times he doesn’t need to check in with reception. Instead, he bursts through the frosted glass doors and hops onto the little leather couch in the corner, crossing his ankles. 

From the desk, his manager waves at him, talking into the phone, spinning away in the chair. 

So maybe Richie’s _ supposed _to check-in, but all that’d do is make him wait in the lobby before he’s told, ‘Mr. Covali is ready for his appointment.’ 

Fuck off with that shit. Steve’s been Richie’s manager for, like, twelve years. Stepped right in after Ullman died, so really, there’s no reason for any mystique or fanciness pretending to be professionalism. Steve always _ dresses _super professional, with his hair gelled back and in a freakin’ suit, but it doesn’t make this arrangement any fancier beyond the facade of formality. 

And Richie, for his part, is very professional. Very formal. “Yo, Steve! Put your pants back on!” 

Super fucking professional. 

Steve waves a hand behind his head, and talks into the phone. “Could you repeat yourself, please? Yeah, that was Richie.” 

“What the fuck?” 

Steve ignores him. “Mmhmm. Yeah. I think we can do that, for -- four o’clock next Wednesday? Sounds good? All right. Have a great one. Bye.” 

And the chair spins around, Steve settles the phone back on its receiver with a soft _ click, _and looks back over to him, staring over at him with raised eyebrows, an overfamiliar expression on his face.

Richie smiles his toothiest shit-eating smile. “Hey, buddy.” 

“Hey, Rich,” Steve says with a sigh. He picks up a manilla envelope from his desk and crosses his spacious office to place it in Richie’s hands. Under his arm, there’s a filing folder, overflowing with loose papers. “The writers finalized your set for Radio City in May.” 

“A little last minute,” Richie says, taking the envelope in hand. It feels like a paper-cut waiting to happen. “But I’ll get this memorized _ tout suite.” _

Steve nods and takes a seat in the winged chair opposite the couch. Switching over to the filing folder, he takes a pen out of his breast pocket. “Do you have time to go over some PR stuff?” 

Richie sucks in a wince. “I got a hot date.” 

He doesn’t. Steve _ knows _he doesn’t. Richie doesn’t date. 

“It’s noon.” 

“You never had a lunchtime quickie?” 

Steve sighs. “C’mon. I’m doubling down on work for you, Rich. It’ll be painless, I promise.” 

Richie sits up on the couch, plopping the envelope on the coffee table between them. “Fine. Shoot.” 

It’s a little insulting. The second Richie’s publicist went on maternity leave, Steve immediately jumped into her role. Like Richie requires constant adult supervision, or something. He can be on his own for twelve weeks, dammit. 

To add insult to injury: He’s older than both of them. 

But, it’s not a big deal. Not really. He’ll listen, nod, and smile and all that shit. But everyone on his team knows half his charm comes from stupid antics. So, it’s all _ fine. _

Steve opens his filing folder and scribbles a note in the margin. “So, can you explain to me what you’re doing on Twitter? Because I don’t get it.” 

“I’m having fun, man.” 

And here it comes. Richie already knows Twitter is as much a professional tool as a personal social media platform, blah blah blah. Personal social media isn’t something people in the public eye get, anyway. And it’s pretty fucking redundant when Steve reminds him to promote his show, especially the next one coming up, and maybe to not be so afraid to get a little more personal? 

What does this Frankie-Valli-looking-motherfucker even _ want _from him? 

It’s a big fucking contradiction. And Richie has to ask, “What do you mean?” 

“By looking at the numbers, you’ll get more retweets and stuff with anecdotes from your life. Not just...videos of dogs running into things.” 

“First off, those videos are the womb from which all comedy emerges. Second, what kind of anecdotes?” 

“Y’know. The usual stuff. ‘This funny thing my wife said at dinner’ kind of a thing.” 

“Wife. Hm. I don’t have one of those. Can I borrow yours?” 

Steve frowns. “It doesn’t have to be that, specifically. It was an example. Try it out.” 

He doesn’t _ need _ to be purposely obtuse. But it’s funnier this way. “Try out a wife? Can you get one of those on Rodeo? What’s the return policy?” 

“With the _ tweeting, _Rich.” 

Richie sighs out air bubbles. “Sure. I can try.” 

“Thank you.” Steve nods and writes something else down in the filing folder. 

They go on and cover a few more bases. Trying to figure out the best way, geographically, to squeeze interviews and shit in. Even though this contract cycle has only begun, they’re already figuring out the next one. Opinioning a tour in mid-2017. It’s all in the early stages, though, so nothing’s set in stone. 

And they smooth out the logistics for the better part of an hour - this, that, the other - until Steve closes the file folder. “Okay. I think that’ll about do it. I think we’re all settled till NYC in May.” 

Richie clicks his tongue with a wink. He starts to rise. 

The air of professionalism drops, for a moment, and Steve looks over his shoulder as he returns to his desk. “What’re you gonna do with yourself till then?” 

“Tweet, apparently. Just. The whole fucking time.” 

“It wasn’t a _quiz, _Rich. Just a question.” Steve sighs. “Are you coming to game night this month?” 

“Yeah, that’s gonna be a no from me, compadre,” Richie says. And then he adds on, “I’ll be out of town” to cover his own ass because, yes, sometimes he’ll go over to Steve’s for game night. Thankfully, usually said games involve an Xbox controller and not a Yahtzee cup. 

“Where’re you headed?” Steve’s sorting through the papers on his desk. 

“I’m going back to Maine. A friend’s putting me up for a couple weeks.” 

“Any occasion?” 

“Nah. I just haven’t seen him in a while.”

“And which friend is this?” 

“Stanley.” 

“The accountant?” 

Richie nods. “And, ironically, that’s not the most boring job one of my friends has.” 

Steve lets it lie. He probably doesn’t want to open up the _ Risk-Analysis-More-Like-Sleep-Analysis _can of worms. Again. Instead, he says, “Well. Good. You deserve a vacation, Rich.” 

Richie works, like, two months out of the year. So he doesn’t know how well he can say he deserves much of anything. And, he doesn’t know how fun this’ll be, considering he’s going back to _ Derry. _

But, Stanley invited him. So, he’s going. 

And he’s not going to go on some grand soliloquy, and so instead he nods, “I _ have _been breaking my back lately.” 

Steve snickers. “Take care of yourself, okay? Let me know if anything comes up.” 

And Richie can’t quite tell if he means in a professional capacity or not, but he nods and heads out as Steve slides his phone off _ Do Not Disturb _and it immediately erupts, ringing loud through the office. 

* * *

Turns out, Richie’s trip comes at the right time. After about a week of inactivity, he starts to get antsy _ waiting _for the next thing, staring at Ikea-white walls and the posters he’s framed. 

It’s a lot of start and go in this industry. Richie used to love that shit. He could go out, do whatever. At the drop of a hat, run off to Reno for the weekend. Go to Six Flags, in the middle of the week during off-season, and beat all the lines. Fly up and over and go see his friends.

He hasn’t done it in years. 

Not for lack of wanting to, but more lack of _ drive. _

And, he’s got his incentive now, anyway. Even if it involves waking up at ass o’clock in the morning to wait at his gate. 

Hurry up and wait. Yeah. Checks out. 

He dozes off, wakes up to the announcement: “Flight SK1986 will now begin boarding zone one, this is active duty U.S military and first-class.” 

Richie stretches and fiddles with his duffle bag. He’ll be living out of this for a couple weeks. He wonders, in a flash of a moment, if Stanely’s guest room has a dresser. If he’ll be expected to unpack or keep everything sardined away, under the bed or something. 

“SK1986 will now begin boarding zone two, this is Executive Platinum, OneWorld Emerald members and business class.”

That’s him. Richie shuffles into place in an impossibly long line. 


	2. Chapter 2

It wasn’t planned this way, but Stan and Patty met him at the baggage claim. Seconds ago, Richie looked up from his phone, trying to calculate how far he could ask Uber or Lyft to take him before it was _ really _an asshole move, or if he should just head over to the Hertz kiosk and see what they had for last-minute rentals. And there they were: the Urises. Clean-pressed and waving next to the winding conveyor belt. 

And now he’s walking towards them like he’s got someplace to be. 

“What the fuck, guys?” Richie laughs. He’s throwing his arms around Stanley’s shoulders, hugging him with an affirming pat on the back. He turns to Patty, stoops down to great her, noodle-armed. When he pulls away, Stanley looks him over. Richie’s got half a mind to pose, but it’s over before he can flash a bicep or do anything that’d look intentional. 

Stanley says, “You look good, Richie.” 

“You’re a fucking liar, Uris. I just got off fucking American Airlines. I look like shit.” 

Stanely doesn’t pursue any further, aborting whatever train of thought he was on. And, here, they all pivot to the exit, towards the massive concrete parking garage. 

And Richie has to ask. “So, you guys playing hooky? It’s, like, two p.m. Isn’t there a desk chair someplace that needs a good ass-warming?” 

From Patty: “Surprise!” 

From Stanley: “We got off early.” 

A certain level of unidentifiable warmth spreads across Richie’s heart, now. And he slows his gait to get a better look at them. “Got off early? Good for you two. That’s difficult at your age.” 

Stanley rolls his eyes. “‘At my age?’ I’m younger than you.”

“By a whole _four_ _months_.” 

“Yeah, but I’m still in my thirties until July.” 

“It’s a _ spiritual age, _Grandpa.” 

And Patty hops up. “Okay! How about we all get some lunch before we head back to Derry?” 

All in all, the reunion’s going well. It’s weird to think, but Richie’s coming home. Or, at least, it feels like he’s coming home. Almost. There’s still the question of the looming beaver-trapping camp at the end of the road. The town itself is much less homey than the people who live there. Some of them. 

But, for now, Richie and the Urises slide into a booth at Applebee’s. Richie on one side, Stanley and Patty on the other. Richie asks if they’d want to split a plate of apples or bees for the table, but they end up with spinach and artichoke dip. 

Lame. 

* * *

**Derry **

The thing about Stanely is, even if he wakes up at fucking dawn, and even if it’s eleven at night and even if Patty’s gone to bed, he’ll still help a dude get settled in the guest room. 

Which, by-the-by, Richie doesn’t need_. _But it’s a nice sentiment. 

Especially since he isn’t exactly the best on figuring out the fitted sheets. 

Actually, he sucks at it. Up to the point where Stan’s chuckling and asking, “How have you gone this long being _ this bad _at this?” 

“Easy,” Richie says, fumbling with his corner. “Queen mattress, king sheets.” 

Stanley laughs. Though that might be from the fact the moment Richie tucks his corner over the mattress, the kitty-corner pops up. As though it was invited somewhere or something. It’s starting to feel like incompetence or something. 

Carefully tucking the rouge corner into the mattress, Stan makes sure it stays put. Then, he says, “I know you just got here. But, it’s a little bit of a funny coincidence. Eddie’s in town. He’s crashing with Bill and Audra.” 

Eddie. 

For one shot of a moment, Richie can’t tell which way’s up. All he sees is a face. Brown eyes. Freckles. A frown. A smile. Teeth. 

Pure unadulterated rage.A laugh that makes the sun peek out of from behind clouds to see what the fuck is so funny anyway. 

But, after what feels too long (Stan’s starting to frown), Richie coughs. He makes his voice old and gravelly. Like a fucking butler or something. “Oh. Yeah. Kaspbrak, the old chap. I remember him.” 

This time, Stan’s frown sets all the way in. “I mean...you _ should. _ That wasn’t what I was asking._” _

All Richie can do is shrug and pray to anything with omnipotence and ears that the heat on his face isn’t as visible as it feels. This isn’t fucking Alabama and he isn’t a fucking debutant at a fucking cotillion, goddamn it. 

Stan has enough tact to go on. “Anyway. Bill and I were thinking it’d be fun to get together, since both of you are in from out of town.” 

“Yeah?” Richie says, curling over his last edge of the fitted sheet, and waiting for Stanley to shake out the blankets, so he can at least pretend to help. “Guy’s night?” 

To this, Stan - _ visibly - _squirms. “Well. See...Patty and Audra get along pretty well and...and we were thinking we’d do it at their place...” 

“So Eds and me will be third-wheeling?” 

Stan ticks his head to the side. “_ Can _you third-wheel with an even number of people?”

Richie considers. Taps on his chin. The whole shebang. And then, he decides. “I think you’ll do your damndest.” 

Smallest tight grin on his face, Stan throws a wadded blanket at him. “Do you wanna go to the Denbroughs tomorrow or not?” 

And - of course - the answer is yes. 

Of course, it is. 

* * *

Richie lies in bed, scrolling through his phone. Honestly, he doesn’t get what Steve’s whole problem is. Lots of people don’t do personal shit on Twitter. His entire feed is animal bloopers. And Mike, tweeting about library shit. (Because, apparently, _ Librarian Twitter _is a thing that exists. Lots of controversy over the Dewey Decimal System.) It’s beside the point, though. 

They’re trying to get him fucking verified, so he’s got to do this. He taps on the proper icons and he stares blankly at the white interface.

...what now? 

Hm. Harder than it looks. 

Thinking, _ fuck it, _he takes a picture of his feet and the foot of the bed, to give context, and types. 

> Tweet by _ @trashmouthtozier: this is for the foot fetishits. Im on _ _ vacation visiting pals before big show in NYC on May 15. _

That should be good enough. He thinks, for a moment, about correcting his spelling. But it’s funnier with the typo. 

He throws in one more for good measure. 

> Tweet by _ @trashmouthtozier: Tix still available here: www.ticketmaster.org/richie-tozier/may-15/430343/purchase _

There. Done. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're here from chapter one, you might have noticed the chapter count doubled. Because. Um. Yeah. It did that. 
> 
> Second. Librarian Twitter **is ** actually a thing. And it's delightful.


	3. Chapter 3

The funny thing is, the second Bill greets them at the door, it immediately feels normal. Like Richie’s always third-wheeling Stan and Patty, standing at the threshold, with a bottle of Wild Turkey tucked in the crook of his arm. 

Not like he’s dropped off the face of their lives for the past three-to-four years. Not like he hasn’t seen them, or talked consistently to anybody but Stanley, in a long, long while. 

Why did he even _ do _that? As he’s greeting Bill with a friendly clap on the back, he can’t remember why. He has to stoop down to Audra, and they both kiss the air, la bise, next to the other’s cheeks. 

It feels like it used to. Regular. Average. A day-to-day occurrence. 

Like it’s normal to walk into the living room and dive on the couch to immediately T-bone his body into Eddie’s. The poor fucker’s iPhone sails across the room on contact. 

“What the fuck, Richie?! Did you forget how to say hi or at least fucking announce yourself?” Eddie yells, “You could’ve broken my fucking arm or something--” 

Richie can’t help but grin at how Eddie falls in line with all the precedent they set when they were kids. Just like that.

“What the hell was I supposed to say? _ Geronimo?” _

“Try fucking hello or something.” 

“Tell me, Eds,” Richie leans forward on the couch. He’s more on Eddie’s lap, but that’s beside the point. “How does one fuck hello?”

“I swear, you’re, like, twelve or something.” Eddie glares. Richie _thinks - _hopes, maybe - he can see a smile underneath it. As though Eddie’s swallowing his grin back in his tight exasperation. He pushes Richie off his shoulder and hopping back onto his feet to fetch his phone. 

It seems shallow, Eddie’s disdain, and Richie can practically hear the laugh under it. He watches Eds crouch down to get his phone, the methodical way he wipes off the glass and examines for any cracks, turning it over in his stable fingers. 

From behind, in the doorway from the living and dining rooms, Richie hears Audra. “I don’t know what we expected with these two, do you?” 

Small clusters of laughter erupt from the doorway area. It’s Stanley and Bill and Audra and Patty. Richie glances over to Eddie. When they make eye contact, they're asking a mutual, undisclosed question. Eddie nods. 

Together, Richie from the couch and Eddie from where he’s bunched up on the rug, they twist around to face the rest of them, middle fingers in the air. 

* * *

The entree for the night is pizza. Richie can’t exactly say it’s _ surprising, _or anything. He wasn’t worried the Denbroughs were going to haul in veal or fancy-ass sushi or anything. But their house is ornate enough that listening to Bill on the phone with fucking Domino’s seems dissonant. The crown molding and real wooden doors don’t exactly fit in with cheap deliciousness of a shitty nation-wide chain. 

But - honestly? - Richie’s thankful. He’s at the kitchen bar, because of fucking course Bill and Audra have a bar in their kitchen. He's mixing himself a whiskey and Coke when the delivery arrives. “Pizza’s here!” Audra calls from the door, and Bill wanders into the kitchen, calling about plates and napkins. 

As Bill slides in beside him, Richie sidestepping to make it easier for his old bud, Richie asks, “Want one?” 

Bill, pulling down the plates, looks at the highball glass. He considers for a moment, and then shrugs. “Sure. But go easy on the pour.” 

“You got it, Chief.” 

Richie’s setting out the ice and the cola and alcohol, eyeballing the correct ratios. Bill’s got a jigger right on the bar but, as a point of personal pride, Richie’s just going for it. Fingering’s the only true method, anyway.

(A universal truism if Richie’s ever heard one.) 

“That’s good,” Bill calls, about a quarter of a second earlier than Richie would’ve stopped on his own. The whiskey’s only made it up to his first finger. 

“Are you sure?” Richie asks, capping the whiskey as he talks. He reaches for the two-liter. “I mean, there’s so little booze in this I could legally sell this to a teenager.” 

“I’ve got more writing to do tonight,” Bill says. Together, now the drinks are done and the plates are gathered, they turn and shuffle back into the living room. “Deadline coming up.” 

“Trouble with the ending?” Richie guesses, remembering how this usually operates. 

Bill grimaces, nods. “Publisher doesn’t like the first draft.” 

“Fuck the publisher!” 

“Not the best thing to say to the people who sign your checks.” 

They take their seats. Richie’s about to sit his highball glass on the coffee table. Stanley, in the middle of a conversation with Eddie, turns and reminds him coasters exist. Eddie, without breaking eye contact with Stanley, throws one into Richie’s lap.

It's ...kind of impressive. If it wasn’t completely absurd, Richie might think it felt a little psychic. Richie takes the coaster and brings it to his face, using it to salute and puts it down on the table with his glass. And if he’s making a bigger deal of it than he needs to, so be it. He returns to his conversation with Bill. “Well, shit, dude. Flattered as I am, don’t use me for procrastination!” 

“I’m not procrastinating.” 

“Sure as hell looks like it.” 

“No. Because,” Bill says, sipping his drink. “When else are we all gonna be able to get together - all six of us? The deadline’s still gonna be there at the end of the week.” 

_ All six of us _is a completely incorrect phrase. Because -- no. It’s not ‘all’ of them. And six isn’t the right number, either. Patty and Audra are fine, but it isn’t very fair that they should come at the expense of everyone else. Seven. The number is seven. It can go up to nine, but never down. Not even one integer. 

Richie considers, sipping the bittersweet tang from the glass. The ice hits his teeth. He winces. “Speaking of all of us, have you heard anything from Mike or Bev or Ben?” 

“Last I heard from Mike,” Bill begins. “He’s in Orlando as the special collections librarian for UCF.” 

“Same,” Richie says, mind taking off as he scratches at his stubble. “We should probably ask him how he’s liking living in a state-wide nursing home.” 

Bill frowns but - fuck it, Richie still thinks it’s a worthwhile sentiment. He clarifies: “Y’know. Because nobody under the age of sixty-five _ actually _lives in Florida.” 

Bill ignores him. 

“As for Bev and Ben…” Bill goes on, swirls the ice in his glass. “Not since the engagement announcement.” 

“And thank _ shit _ ,” Richie says. He has the Save the Date taped to his refrigerator back in California. It’s an elegant black and white photograph of Bev and Ben, gazing into each other’s eyes. _ January 7, 2017 _is scripted along the bottom, in big loopy letters. It’s fancy as shit. The looping cursive script, the grins and artistic grayscale. Everything made to showcase how they’re the world’s hottest pseudo-supermodels. And most in love, to boot. Richie goes on: “I thought that volcano was never gonna blow.” 

“Didn’t seem like it for a while.” 

“Damn straight,” Richie shoots back his drink. “Christ. Remember all that shit back in the day? And Bev’s ex was an _ asshole. _I’ve never been so fucking thrilled to hear about someone’s divorce.” 

Bill nods, pensive. He sips his alcohol. 

And, quite fucking frankly, it’s a drag. There has to be something Richie can do to lighten the mood. It might be easy pickings, but he drains the rest of his drink and turns to Eddie. “So, in the spirit of trainwrecks-waiting-to-happen, Eds. How’s the little-big wife?” 

The room zips quiet. Eddie glares, but that much is expected. What’s unexpected is how still everything’s gone. How slow. Stanley sucks in air, wincing. Bill looks down at the ground. Audra and Patty are looking at each other like they fucking know something. 

And it’s a little disturbing. 

“What the fuck did I say?”

He always makes fun of Myra. It’d be weird if he _ didn’t. _

“Yeah, you're a dick.” Eddie lifts a hand, ready to flip Richie off, and say something like 

Wait. 

Eddie’s lifting the back of his whole hand. The back of his _ left _ hand. Aside from a watch, it’s bare. There’s no ring. 

“Fuck,” Richie says before he can stop himself. He’s fucking fighting - battling, _ losing to - _the upturn in his lips. “You left her?” 

“We’re divorced,” Eddie says, stiffly. “We signed the papers last week. That’s why I’m here.” 

“Well, shit, Eds--” 

“Don’t you fucking say a word.” 

“All I was gonna say...” Richie's heart is going approximately three hundred miles per hour. “Was that this must be a big weight off your shoulders.” 

“Fuck you.” Eddie spits. From his tone, it sounds like he means it. And not in the fun way. Richie feels his stomach crumple up inside him, a sheet of unusable paper. 

“Well, I mean, you’re not married anymore so, if you wanted…” 

“When was the last time _ your _marriage collapsed, Richie?” 

Ouch. 

Richie tries to squeeze out a laugh. “That’s a little bit of a loaded question, after your mom passed and all.” 

Too much? Maybe that was too much. God. He never can just stick a cork in it. 

Eddie sighs, hands cutting up to punctuate himself. “Learn to read a fucking room for once in your life, dumbass.” 

That’d be a little difficult. It’s almost like nobody else _ is _ in the room, watching them and rubbing their temples. All Richie can feel is Eddie’s hot glare searing into him. 

And, he doesn’t know what to say. Sure, he’s fond enough of his friends' spouses, most of the time. Myra, though? 

Richie isn’t exactly a fan. 

But maybe he doesn’t _ need _to be a complete dickhead about it. 

“Look,” He says, scratching at the back of his neck. “You’re right. I literally have no idea what you’re going through. But...” 

_ But she sucks. _

Eddie's chewing on the inside of his cheek. One of the tendons in his neck sticks out. 

Richie pauses. After a beat, he steamrolls ahead: “But when you’re ready to get back out there, lemme know. I can help you set up, like, Tinder. Or Grindr, if that’s more your speed--” 

“Fuck you, Richie.” 

Patty jumps up to her feet. “Oh-kay!” She over-enunciates. “Who wants to see what’s on Netflix?” 


	4. Chapter 4

The day Eddie got married, a decade ago, it rained. Richie hadn’t grabbed an umbrella out of the car. Instead, he used his suit jacket to cover his head as he ran from the car to the church. 

He thought he was running late. But by the time he shuffled his sopping wet dress shoes into the choir room, Eddie was the only other person there. Turns out, he was early. Because of course, he was early. 

Like showing up two hours early, hungover, for a fucking root canal.

Eddie noticed Richie in the mirror and rolled his eyes. “That’s dry clean only, asshole.” 

Richie held out his jacket, splattered with rain and damp. “Oh. Well. That’s a bummer.” 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Eddie mumbled, hands up at his neck, fiddling with the knot laid there. His tie was a dark magenta-pink. It made him look even more flustered than normal. 

Richie hung his dry-clean-only jacket on the back of a music stand to let it air out a bit. “Careful. We’re in a church - you might burst into flame if you say shit like that.” 

“If your Trashmouth isn’t on fire, I’m sure I’m safe.” 

“Words hurt, Edward.” 

“You’ll be fine,” Eddie said, tiny little grin in the corners of his mouth, turning back to the mirror. He adjusted his tie, straight as a pin, and fiddled with the gaudy boutonniere on his breast pocket. 

“Well, fuck,” He murmured, more to his reflection than to Richie, small and insignificant in the corner. “This is happening.” 

“I mean, it's not too late to sneak out the bathroom window.. _ .. _ ” 

Eddie’s stare turned hard. 

Richie had to swallow his tongue. Because - what in This Actual Living Hell was he  _ supposed _ to say? 

Don’t do this? 

She sucks? 

You do realize she’s basically your mom in a wig, right? 

You can do better? 

_ Please?  _

Nothing seemed right. 

But, it didn’t matter. Eddie wouldn’t let him finish anyway.

“Stop it. Put it away for one day. One fucking day, Rich. That’s all I’m asking.” 

“You’re asking for the rest of your life--” 

“With her! Why do you always act like you’re a fucking part of this? You’re not. You know that, right?” 

Richie couldn't breathe.

He couldn’t stop himself from stepping backward. This shitty choir room had fucking superb acoustics. He felt the bile burn of stomach acid cut into his esophagus. His tongue felt heavy - so fucking heavy - in his mouth. 

Taking a deep breath, Eddie shook his head. Calme himself down. His face looked less red, at least through the way Richie’s burning eyes contorted it. He said, “I’m gonna do this. You don’t  _ have _ to be up here with me when I do.” 

No matter how hard he tried not to, all Richie could hear was the unspoken ultimatum. Walk away now, walk away forever. And, frankly, that was too big a request. He could put up with anything for the sake of an old friend. For Eddie, in specific. 

And so, as something of a wedding present, Richie relented. Holding up the ends of the tie hanging limply around his neck, he made his peace offering. “Help me with this?” 

Eddie did. His hands spun, meticulous around his throat, securing the Windsor knot with a kind of methodical dexterity that could only come from Eddie. It wasn't too tight, but Richie was choking. 

* * *

  
  


By the time Richie wakes up, he is alone in the house. And, even though he thinks nine is a perfectly reasonable time for an adult human man to wake up, he knows the Urises are on some lame early-bird-special schedule where they need to be at work and ready to go by the time Richie’s alarm even goes off. 

\--not that, in Richie’s life, he doesn’t have time constraints. He needs to show up on time for meetings and sound checks and for the shows. But those start at a normal human time to be awake -- noon, at the earliest. 

But, either way, if he’s going to face facts. The cars are gone from the garage, and the only lights on are streaking in from the windows. 

Richie’s alone, here, and it feels  _ weird _ . Like he’s trespassing. Even if he was invited. 

On the counter, the carafe is full, as though Stanley and Patty brewed more coffee before they’d left, and there’s a note from Stan: 

> _ Richie,  _
> 
> _ It’s a late night for us tonight. I have meetings till 7 and Patty goes to step after work. It’s leftovers night so bear that in mind if you want to eat with us.  _
> 
> _ Stan _

There’s a part of this that feels...weird. Like, Stan could’ve just texted him this shit. He didn’t need to leave a note like a parent on a snow day telling their kid to do chores. Even if there were no chores in the description. But  _ still.  _

Because now he’s left with a gaping hole in his day, again. And - yeah - he figured this’d be part of the deal. Stan had invited him so last minute, and who the hell wants to take their vacation time to sit around in Derry in the middle of April, other than Eddie? 

Hm. Eddie. 

And, maybe they hadn’t left things the best last night. They’d melted into the silence of Netflix. And they hadn’t said anything about Eddie’s divorce for the rest of the night. 

He didn’t really  _ want  _ to talk about it, but the bleak nothingness was - somehow - worse. 

It's a quarter to ten, and Richie pulls his phone off its charger in his room, throws it up to his face, and type rapidly into the glass. 

Eddie’s is one of the three phone numbers he still has memorized. 

After three rings, Eddie picks up. “ _ What?”  _

Richie _wants _to say sorry. He’s sorry for not taking the knowledge of Eddie’s divorce with the gravity it necessitates. He’s sorry that he couldn’t control what a fucking relief it was. And his mouth is open, he should say it. He should just be honest -- candid, even. 

But instead, he finds himself searching for pockets in his pajama pants. Uncomfortable when they aren’t there, he says, “You’re not ready to get back out there yet. I get it.” 

From the other end, Eddie pauses. “Was that supposed to be some kind of apology?” 

Richie swallows down the feeling to make himself sheepish, shrugging and grimacing, saying “Kind of” instead of saying  _ Yes.  _

It’s enough. It has to be. It’s always been enough before. 

He hears Eddie sigh. And, a moment later, he says, “Why are you calling, Richie?”

There. Enough. 

“Do you have your car here?” 

He can hear the audible confusion in Eddie’s voice. “Yeah? I drove here.” 

Richie refills his cup of coffee and thumbs his way through the half-finished Sudoku book on the coffee table. “Wanna take me into town?” 

“What for?” 

Well…

Actually, Richie hasn’t thought so far ahead. He doesn’t really have anything resembling a  _ plan  _ other than leaving the four walls of the living room and stretching his legs. So. He keeps it vague: “Errands?” 

There’s a bit longer a wait before Eddie responds. Like he’s trying to figure something out. Like it’s not a plain request, no ulteriors or anything. And then, he says, “I’ll pick you up in ten.” 

“See you soon.” 

After hanging up, Richie rinses out his mug and plops it into the dishwasher (which seems like too extra of a fucking hassle, but he’ll be  _ damned _ if anyone ever says anything bad about Richie fucking Tozier as a house guest). 

He hovers down the hallway, just to keep his feet busy, pacing with his toothbrush in his mouth, frothy paste gathering at the corners. He probably doesn’t get it all off when he’s done - doesn’t bother looking in the mirror, and only runs a comb through his hair once. His hairline started receding a little in his thirties, but thankfully it hadn’t thinned out too much, and - thank fuck - it hadn’t receded  _ too _ far. He’d never get away with balding in L.A. He’d have to goddamn get microblading or fucking surgery. Because that’s what fucking people do in L.A. 

He doesn’t shave, for virtue of time, and he figures his stubble can take an extra day sans maintenance. And, by the time he’s done with everything, there’s a honk from the driveway. Swinging out, shouldering his jacket on after he’s walked out into the chilled morning, he sees Eddie hit the power lock in his big Cadillac, and Richie can see the tabs shoot up. He waves, as he jogs down the driveway, and Eddie waves back, chewing through a bemused expression. 

“What?” Richie asks as he climbs into the seat. 

“It’s nothing,” Eddie shakes his head. “Seatbelt.” 

Richie obliges him, watching - leaning on his elbow by the window, temple resting on his knuckles. Eddie puts his arm on the back of the passenger seat, leaning over to back out of the driveway. He looks so comfortable, sitting there in jeans and a polo shirt, and fingers sliding around the steering wheel with confident ease, as though he was born to maneuver a car. There’s no opposing traffic, no one else around. It’s nice.

Noticing Richie staring at him, Eddie frowns - eyes darting for a moment from the rear window to meet Richie’s stare. “The fuck, dude?” 

“It’s nothing,” Richie echoes Eddie’s earlier, and when Eddie rolls his eyes, he figures it fired the way it should’ve. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Eddie spins the steering wheel and switches gears. Moving forward, and checking the mirrors more frequently than Richie had ever since he got his fucking driver’s license, he speaks. “So, where to?” 

“Hm?” 

“What errands are we running?” Eddie clarifies. 

Richie pauses. Okay, so he hadn’t thought this part through. Not entirely. But he needs to think of _ something,  _ and - remembering the note Stan left for him on the counter - says, “Food.” 

“...what?” 

“Like, a grocery store. I need to go to the grocery store.” 

“For Stan and Patty or…?” Eddie taps on the steering wheel, agitated at the stop sign for still being there with no oncoming traffic present. He rolls his stop, sliding forward. Richie grins, fond and quiet. 

“Nah. It’s leftover night. If I have to eat meatloaf I’m gonna fucking riot.” 

Eddie nods and shrugs, lips pulled down, exaggerated, as though to say,  _ Yeah. Fair.  _

It’s weird, Richie thinks, as they stalk around the grocery store, how little has changed. Like the movie theater, the grocery store still has the same shrieking fluorescent lights from on-high. The same scuffed up floors. The food’s arranged in the same way it has been Richie’s whole life. The biggest difference, he notices, stalking up and down the aisles with Eddie at his size, is a nominal effort to label a few things as  _ Organic  _ and  _ Locally Sourced.  _

But it ain’t no Ralph’s. Or even Wal-Mart. 

And, because it’s so familiar and so similar to the way it used to be, Richie finds himself reaching for a box of mac and cheese from the shelf. Kraft, because he doesn’t hate himself, and he actually has good fucking taste. 

Eddie, however, seems to disagree. “ _ That’s  _ gonna be your meatloaf substitute?” 

“Um. Yeah. This shit is delicious.” 

“Ever heard of  _ protein _ ?” 

“You tell me,” Richie’s blowing lip bubbles. “I mean. Check out  _ this  _ gun show.” 

He does flex his free arm, the one without the grocery basket hanging down, but - the thing is - he doesn’t expect Eddie to actually touch his bicep. But Eddie’s fingers curl around his arm, close and he gives him a little squeeze. He’s stepped closer, Richie can identify the Old Spice again. 

Richie can’t breathe. 

Eddie pulls a sour face. “Yeah. That’s gonna be a no to you and your noodle arms.” 

Goddamn pulling himself together, Richie shrugs - the very fucking picture of nonchalance. “Well, I mean. If you’re comparing me to, like, _Ben_, then yeah, but for white comedians after thirty-five I’m not doing too shabby.” 

“Really selling yourself there, Rich.” Eddie laughs. He shakes his head. “What else do you need?” 

“Um,” Richie looks at his basket, and its single box of Mac and Cheese. “Chips and Heineken.” 

“Yeah,” Eddie mutters, hand accidentally hitting Richie’s as they swing beside him, “I can  _ literally  _ see the nutrient deficit in your face.” 

“Well, then, Eds. Help a guy out. Whose meat do you get  _ your  _ protein from?” 

“Oh, fuck you.” 

“Fuck you.” 

But the back of Eddie’s hand hits his arm, light and without force, and Richie can’t wipe the stupid fucking grin off his face. 

* * *

While they’re waiting in line at checkout, Richie pulls out his phone, opens Twitter and types away. 

> Tweet by @trashmouthtozier:  _ nothing like going to the grocery store for fun  _ _ to remind you how shitty your hometown is _

Even though, as he and Eddie talk shit about the headlines in National Enquirer, he is having fun. Actually, genuinely, is. 

* * *

“Any other errands?” Eddie asks, zipping his jacket up in the entryway of the grocery store.

Richie shrugs. “Do you wanna like...walk around?” 

Eddie quirks a brow. He pauses. “What, no elaborate lie to chase it down?” 

“I didn’t say that,” Richie can feel his ears turning red. “I just asked if you wanted to walk around.” 

Because there wasn’t anything from the grocery store that needed to be refrigerated, Richie simply hurled his bag, and sat his six-pack, in the backseat of Eddie’s car and pivoted back towards his old friend. “Let’s hit the pavement.” 

It’s a mild day for April. Richie can tell spring is, literally, knocking down the door. The brisk wind blunders around, catching the musty fragments of winter and pulling it around their faces. It’s nice, Richie notes. Even if, when it lasts too long, he’s left with numb ears and knuckles. But they duck into shops here and there. Richie makes fun of various curios and merchandise, Eddie bites back a laugh, and they’re on their merry way. 

Leaving one particular antique store, Richie’s grinning. “No, I’m being serious. I think I  _ need  _ that taxidermied deer head in my place.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Okay, for one _ ,  _ that fucking thing looked like it had fleas. Two, it was fucking cross-eyed, and three, you don’t even hunt. What in the fuck would you want with a shitty deer head?” 

“‘s rustic.” Richie offers. 

“Do you even hear yourself right now?" 

Richie shoves his hands in his pockets as they continue to walk down the sidewalk, making use of whatever length the main downtown strip of Derry has. “But, you know, you’re gonna have to be putting together your bachelor pad, pretty soon--”

“And a dead deer would finish off the ambiance? Hard pass.” 

“What? I mean, I figure all the florals and pinks in your house was about - what - forty percent Myra? This is your chance to be forty percent more butch.” 

“Asshole.” Eddie’s foot swings out, as they’re walking, to trip Richie. Richie, who stumbles, hands swinging through the air, but finds equilibrium on Eddie’s shoulders. 

Eddie’s shoulders feel more broad than they look with Richie holding onto them. Warmer. 

He catches his exhale, the way the cooler air condenses in a cloud, puffing from his lips. In spite of himself, his eyes dart around, making sure no one’s seen. Fucking hell. He didn’t do anything  _ wrong.  _ He stands, upright, offering Eds a light, friendly, jab to the arm. 

At this point, once he gets done sorting through his thoughts and shoving them all into a filing cabinet somewhere in his brain, he figures, he’s committed to the bit. So. Why not continue? 

“But, really, Eds. You could get, like, a giant fucking painting of beer and put it on your wall.” 

“Why the hell would I do that?” 

“Manly as shit.” 

“I think the fact we’re talking about interior design blew ‘manly as shit’ right out of the water.” 

Richie laughs. “Touche.” 

They walk for a bit longer, the crunch of the salted pavement uneven in their steps. And then they reach the end of the road - where downtown meets the Road Out of Derry. 

That road they’d all stared at every day growing up, waiting for the exciting day they got to take that road and never look back.

Ironic, because they’re pivoting on their heels and stalking all the way down - back towards the grocery store. 

It’s the sound of their heels on the ground for a moment, nothing else. But then, from a low register, Richie can hear Eddie mumble. 

“What, Eds? Didn’t catch that.” 

“Hm?” Eddie looks up. He turns red. “Oh. It’s just weird. I haven’t lived alone in years.” 

“It’s not  _ bad _ .” Lonely. Empty, sometimes. 

“Oh, I know,” Eddie says, scratching at the nape of his neck. “I just never thought I’d have to again.” 

Richie shrugs. There’s a certain amount of freedom, to having an entire place to yourself. But also the feeling of loneliness, of being the only person occupying a single space, where everything seems bigger, simply by virtue of nobody else being in. It can go either way. “I’m sure you’ll be used to it before you know it.” 

It’s not exactly comforting, he knows. There’s not much - in specific - to say. But, fuck, he’s trying. 

Eddie concentrates his gaze on the pavement in front of him. He’s getting lost in his own thoughts, sprinting away from the street, away from Richie. 

He’s got to try and pull Eddie back to reality, and so he says, “Hey. This shit happens. Happy couples don’t get divorced. You made the choice you fucking needed to make.” 

Eddie makes eye contact with him, brief and - almost - there seems to be a  _ thank you  _ in his eyes. They’re brown and warm and blinking. But he looks away. “I didn’t.” 

“Of course you did, Eds, I mean--”

“No. I didn’t make the decision.” 

Richie knows it’s an asshole thing to do, but his jaw drops. “How?”

Myra left Eddie? 

Again. He repeats:  _ How?  _

Eddie exhales. They’re walking, and the pace slows down. Eddie’s eyes move around the street, trying to find something to fix on. When they settle on a pidgeon, mulling around a bench, he continues: “We were in couple’s therapy for a few years. Myra hated it.” 

“I’m shocked. Truly.” Richie says, cringing an apology when Eddie glares at him. Because,  _ of course,  _ Myra wouldn’t have liked it. A fucking professional was bound to see through that fucking wall full of vaguely Oedipal mommy-issue-asbestos.

Eddie sighs, agitated, and goes on, voice a little louder. “But I said, ‘Let’s keep trying. Just a few more months and we can try something else.’ And she agreed. And then, the next fucking week, I…” He stops and gnaws on the side of his cheek. “I said something she didn’t like. And we kind of imploded after.” 

“What’d you say?” His knees almost give out. He can’t believe this shit. 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

“Eddie, I--” 

“Do not  _ fucking _ push this, Richie. _ ”  _

Richie relents. “Okay. Continue.”  _ _

“Yeah, well.” Eddie nods. Goes on: “So,  _ that _ \- combined with a few years of me, apparently, being shitty and... _ withholding _ , made her ask me if I even really wanted to try. And I’d said, ‘I don’t know.’ And the next day, I got served.” 

Richie doesn’t know what to say, except for “Shit, dude.” 

“Yeah.” 

They take a few steps forward. Richie’s knees itch. He can’t reconcile what he’s hearing, and can’t keep down the word-vomit, and so, he doesn’t try. “She’s a moron.” 

“ _ Richie.  _ Can you not?” 

“No. Anybody who walks away that easily is a goddamn idiot.” 

“It wasn’t fucking  _ easy.”  _

“Yeah, I’m sure it fucking sucks to hear that hubs can't get his dick up anymore in the middle of a therapist’s office on a Tuesday--" 

_ “ _ What the fuck man? Seriously? _ ”  _

“Call me psychic.” Richie shrugs. Eddie’s glaring. Richie, nevertheless, goes on: “But the question there is ‘Should we invest in fuzzy pink handcuffs to see if spicing things up’ll help?’ not ‘Should we invest in a divorce lawyer?’ You’ve got to wanna fix your part in it. You did. She didn’t.” 

Eddie blows out. “It's more complicated than that." 

“Not from where I’m standing.” 

“Whatever." Eddie scratches at the back of his neck. Then, he says, “Thanks, though.” 

“Any time,” Richie says, reaching over to ruffle Eddie’s hair. Eddie swats at him, floppy-wristed, solemn-smiled. And, just like that, they fall into step with one another. 

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

The summer before he went to college, Richie was so ready to leave. So fucking ready. He’d already stripped all the sheets from his bed. The only thing left in his room was the twin mattress he’d had since he was six and an empty dresser that, at this point, had been cleared out so long there were cobwebs forming in the drawers. He was eighteen. He could've fucking done it already, gotten the hell out of dodge, if only he'd had somewhere to go. 

Everyone else had. 

Mike and Bev and Bill and Stan had already started their freshmen orientations at college. Ben was taking a gap year, but left for his internship in Bar Harbor back in July. Eddie already had orientation midsummer - during the longest weekend of the summer - and would start the last week of August. Richie had to wait until the second week of September. And then he was off: undeclared major, unknown city, all a giant question mark on the horizon. (He didn't know at the time, he'd only last two years.) 

They were all spread out and leaving, all at different times, and the idea of all of them dropping off, one by one, into the great unknown of college was nothing short of terrifying. 

Who knew when they’d see each other again? 

Who knew if that moment, then at the end of the summer, legs dangling off the edge of the quarry, sharing the last of the bottle of Jack Daniels between the two of them that were left. Him and Eddie. Hanging on at the very end. 

Eddie - who tipped his head back and quickly shot what probably amounted to a double. Catching himself watching the bob of Eddie’s Adam's apple, Richie shook his head and turned. “Who woulda thought little Eddie Spaghetti can hold his liquor.” 

“Shut up, Richie,” Eddie said, wiping his lip with the back of his hand, passing the bottle back over 

Richie took his turn, a slow draught and a content sigh. They’d been working their way through it for the better half of the summer, and between the seven of them, it’d depleted quickly and then evened out, as they all disappeared, one by one. 

The sun hung low, reflected off the water. There was only a tiny bit of the bourbon left. Richie and Eddie arm-wrestled for it, and, so graciously admitting defeat, Richie watched while Eddie emptied the bottle, face lit warm in the low sun. The cold night air crept in around them, settling on their shoulders like a sheet. 

They’d been out here all evening, just the two of them. 

When he finished, Eddie sighed. “We should probably go, huh?” He moved to stand, but immediately stumbled back on his ass. He tapped his head, articulating hard to take away any slur. “Shit. Think I’m drunk.” 

“We can stay a little while longer.” 

Eddie nodded, looking like his head is a little heavier from the alcohol. He gazed out over the water. Everything looked brighter, right then. Golden, even. “It’s fuckin’ dumb.” He mumbled. Richie turned to look at him, question in his eyes. Eddie elaborated: “I don’t  _ feel  _ like I’m drunk. And then I try to move. And - fuck. I’m drunk.” 

“We could sleep in the clubhouse,” Richie offered, testing out the weight in his limbs. The way everything seemed slower than normal. And then, immediately, retracted. “Just if you want to.” 

Eddie snorted. “I don’t wanna wake up hungover on the dirty ground.” 

“There’s a hammock in there.” 

“We barely fit in there when we were thirteen.” 

“But you’re still so  _ little _ .” 

Eddie was indignant. Pouting, eyes glassy but forceful. “I’m, like, 5’9”, asshole.” 

“Sorry, I can’t hear you from way up here!” Richie jumped up to his feet, stumbling a little. He teetered, and found his balance swinging away from him, dangerously far over the edge, hovering over the dark waters of the quarry below. 

He hadn’t realized just how close they were to the edge. He flailed his hands in the air, trying to get his tipsy equilibrium back. And then, a fist clenched around the hem of his shirt, a high  _ “ _ Watch it!” from below, and next thing Richie knew, he was hitting the grass, stumbling right next to Eddie. 

Eddie, whose hands were still fisted up in front of Richie’s shirt, who had fallen back onto his shoulder beneath him. Richie had to readjust his glasses, and the way they fell askew on his nose. 

“Fuck,” Richie breathed, getting his senses back. “Um. Thanks, man.” 

“Ow.” Eddie was rubbing the back of his head. It looked like he fell on a root of some kind. Mostly ignoring him. “Don’t get yourself killed for a fucking joke.” 

“But what if it’s a really good joke?” Richie asked, shit-eating, toothy grin. He hauled himself up on his elbow. Eddie laid, on his back, rolling his eyes. 

“Well, if that’s a hit of your A-material, I’d say you’re gonna have to stay alive forever.” 

Richie made a big deal of showing his shrug, his nonchalance. “That doesn’t sound like too bad a setup.” 

And, he probably would’ve had a snappier comeback, but Eddie adjusted on his back, somehow moved a little closer to Richie_, _and the wind sailed right out of him. Stolen, right from his fucking lungs.

Richie could feel the air prickle around him. A familiar sense of deja vu. Not that this had happened before, but that he’d seen, this exact moment, playing in his head over and over again, in bed at night, daydreaming during Algebra II, in the shower. He was lying on his hands and knees over Eddie, and they were alone. The only sounds were the water hitting the rocks, the crickets singing, the cicadas screaming. The only sense was the benevolent anonymity of darkness descending around them. 

And Richie could imagine -- like he has all those times before, in his private worlds -- leaning forward, taking Eddie’s face in both his hands. Kissing him. Learning what Eddie’s lips would feel like against his. He could imagine Eddie’s hands sliding to the back of his neck, into his hair. What his nails would feel like scraping against Richie’s scalp. What it’d be like to taste Eddie’s mouth opening into his. What it’d sound like to hear “ _ Took you fucking long enough,”  _ rasp against his ear. What Eddie’s hands would feel like pulling at his zipper. 

But, he’d never know what any of that shit was like. It’d never happen. Not in a million-zillion years. 

The actual options, Richie knew, ranged from bad to worse. He had also seen, in his mind’s eye, himself leaning in - going for it - and getting pushed off. He could see himself banging his head against a rock and Eddie screaming, “What the fuck, Richie? Are you fucking queer?” 

Or, even leaning in to kiss him only to have Eddie pull away. Where he’d look so concerned, so  _ upset _ , and shake his head and say, “Rich...I’m...I’m not… _ ”  _

Richie had no idea which one would be worse. 

And so, he didn’t move in, but out. He laid on his back, staring up at the sky. Gesturing to the constellations that’d just debut through the clouds, he blurted out, “That one looks like a vagina.” 

And Eddie’s groan sounded familiar, and normal. It was cold comfort. But comfort nonetheless. 

* * *

It’s Saturday, so Richie finally gets to see Stan during the day. They sit in a deli for lunch, the smell of freshly toasted bagels and cups of shitty coffee circles around from the ceiling fans. Stan fucking lays his paper napkin on his lap and, cutting his sandwich in half, chews the tiniest corner. Richie, on the other hand, takes a massive bite out of the bread. He can feel mustard on the juncture of his lip. He’ll wipe it with his hands later. 

And Stanley’s finishing up his point, intercut with his beats of silence to chew and swallow his lunch. “So, yeah. I’ve got to pull some overtime to get enough vacation days, but it’s happening. We’re gonna go to Buenos Aires this summer. Patty was so excited when she booked the trip.” 

Richie, mouth half full, says, “You two are gross sometimes, you know that?” 

“How so?” Stan’s face scrunches up, he laces his fingers together and quirks his head to the side. 

“You’ve been married for eighteen years. Shouldn’t you be tired of each other by now?” 

“You probably shouldn’t just use TV and movies as your metric for what marriage is like.” 

Richie shrugs, finally removing the mustard from his face with his thumb and raising his water glass to his lips. “I mean. That’s so far out of my... _ stratosphere.  _ Why bother trying?” 

“You never know.” Stan says, “It could happen. After Obergfell--” 

Richie chokes on his water. 

Just. 

Fucking  _ spews _ it all over his sandwich. 

Pounding on his chest, all he can cough out is a spluttering “ _ What?”  _

“It’s nothing.” Stan looks, abruptly, down at his plate. “Never mind.” 

All Richie can hear is wind in his ears. The chattering of everyone else in the deli. The way Stan’s avoiding eye contact.

Oh. 

Oh  _ fuck _ . 

“You know” is all he can say. 

“I mean…” Stan looks sheepish. He shrugs. “Yeah.” 

“ _ How  _ did you... _ when?”  _

Stan’s grimace is clear on his face. He shuffles in his seat. “I guessed when we were thirteen. I knew by the time we graduated.”

“Thirteen _ ?  _ Fuck.” Richie’s appetite is so far beyond gone. “Do...did the others know?” 

“I don’t know. I never talked to them about it.” 

Richie’s breathing slows, a little. Good old trusty Stan. 

“I figured you would when you were ready.” 

Richie can’t locate his heart. It’s fallen somewhere down his stomach, swallowed into nothing. He’s in a fucking incubator, his face and the inside of his elbows and all that shit  _ burns.  _

All he can think to say now, though? “You’re not gonna tell anyone else, are you?” 

God. It feels so  _ fucking  _ juvenile. 

But Stan - fucking blessing that he is - shakes his head. “Not if you don’t want me to.” 

“Thanks.”

* * *

Up to now, Richie thought he was pretty good at hiding it. Hell, he’d spent the better part of his twenties just pushing it to the back of a sock-drawer, focusing on his career. He’d spent his thirties thinking about it as little as humanly possible. 

He hadn’t  _ needed  _ to. Plenty of people don’t get to do everything they want to. Richie had lots of other shit going on. Tours and voice acting gigs and charity roasts. He never needed a love life. And, he certainly didn’t need to think about it. 

And, there he’d been - for at least twenty-seven fucking years _ \-  _ thinking that, just because he hadn’t told any of the Losers, that they weren’t able to figure it out. 

He didn’t tell them - he couldn’t bring himself to. What would he do when everything they knew about Richie suddenly became...uncertain? Apparently, Stan had always known. Apparently, Stan hadn’t changed the way he thought about Richie. And, while that was appreciated, he couldn’t count on that across the board. He didn’t want Mike or Bill or Ben or Eddie combing over all their sleepovers for any extra stares or flirting they hadn’t noticed. God. Especially not Eddie. 

What they’ve known about him since they were kids -- that’s all still true. 

There are just a few extra details. A few things he doesn’t talk about. One little thing…

Okay. Two little things. 

And maybe it’s bigger than he likes to give it credit for. 

But it shouldn’t change anything. He’s still  _ Richie.  _ Whether or not he’s being wholly honest - with himself or otherwise - it doesn’t make him a different person. 

Just because he’s gay doesn’t mean he’s willing to do anything about it.

For the rest of that day, it feels like fucking spiders are crawling up his back. Richie knows Stan didn’t mean to say anything that’d be even remotely spidery, but it doesn’t change the fact Richie can’t fucking make eye contact. 

And so, as they’re pulling back into Stan’s garage, he says, “Hey. I need to go.” 

Stan turns to him, mouth turned down into shock. “Richie, I--” 

“It’s fine.” Richie insists. He’ll get used to it. Eventually. “I just can’t be here. I need to fucking go.” 

And, that’s true. He can’t sit around, pretending like everything’s fine. He can’t pretend like, every time Bowers called him all those ugly words_, _Stanley hadn’t recognized the truth in them. 

That reality doesn’t exist anymore, and Richie can’t just sit here and act like that fact doesn’t make him want to hurl. 

“Okay. But...Richie…” Stanley pauses. He taps his hand on the steering wheel. “You know it doesn’t  _ matter,  _ right?” 

Richie’s laugh is hollow. Empty. He can practically feel the cobwebs between his teeth. It better fucking matter. There’s  _ got _ to have been a good reason he’s lived like this for so long. 

There just has to be. 

* * *

Because he booked his ticket in less than twenty-four hours, he’s got an overnight layover in Orlando. But - thankfully _ \-  _ he knows a local. 

It’d been a quick phone call, that morning while Stan was driving him to the airport. Nothing more than, “Hey, Mike, can I crash?” And badda bing badda boom, the arrangements were made. 

During the whole ride, Stan is quiet, frown set and eyes locked ahead. There’s a small, cruel part of Richie satisfied with the fact Stan seemed to feel guilty about his reaction. That wants Stan to know this is why you don’t just drop bombs like this on people. He doesn’t want to be a bad friend, but whenever he starts to think about it, his brain shuts off. He can’t stop it. He needs to cover it up. And that’s - frankly - exhausting. 

And so - although it’s not exactly a safe haven, he gives Stanley a hug before he goes through security, and crawls back into an airplane. Feeling - for the life of him - like a fucking coward.


	6. Chapter 6

**Orlando **

Mike lives in a small Mediterranean-eclectic house. Richie feels the tiniest pang of guilt. It’s a nice place. Why hasn’t Richie been here before? 

The house is yellow and there are big windows up front, and a pretty open floor plan, because Mike’s opening the door the moment Richie’s Uber peels out of the driveway. From behind his knees, a speckled mutt peers out, ears perked up. Maybe the dog even recognizes Richie. 

“Hey!” Mike grins, warm and patting Richie on the shoulder as he passes the threshold. “How was the flight?” 

“You know. No legroom. Crying babies. The usual.” He smiles back at Mike, thankful for the warmness in his friend’s face, and the cold blast of the air conditioner that envelopes him the second he crosses the doorway. Gesturing to the mutt, carefully sniffing around Richie’s knees and crotch, he leans down to ruffle his scruff. “Hey, Mr. Chips. How’s the good boy?” 

“Well, at least it’s a shorter one,” Mike intones, chuckling as Richie continues to fervently pat the dog. “How was your visit with Stan?” 

“Fine.” And Richie’s just being fucking paranoid. He stops and considers. Mr. Chips buries his nose into Richie’s hand, as though to ask who the fuck permitted Richie to stop petting him. But, Richie’s caught on a snag in his brain. There’s no way Mike would know more than what he told him about the layover. And - fuck - he doesn’t even know Richie cut the trip short. 

And he has no reason to believe Mike had noticed the same shit Stan had, back when they were young. Right? 

“Tired?” 

Richie coughs, and stands. “What?” 

“You’re zoning a little,” Mike says. 

“Oh. Yeah. The flight was..tiring.” 

“Well! Let me show you around and you can relax for the night.” 

He steps forward, showing Richie around. There’s a couch in the office he can sleep on, where the bathroom is, and - finally - to the real focal point: the kitchen. Circling, Mike leans over the stove, pulling up the lid from a saucepan. Mr. Chips follows, diligent and quiet, sad eyes begging. “If you didn’t eat on the flight, smells like the sloppy joes are ready.” 

“Sloppy joes? Sign me the fuck up!” 

And they pull out their plates and buns and plop them down on the table. Mike has a six-pack of IPAs in the fridge, and he pulls them out, popping the lid with the bottle openers. 

Taking a bite, Richie nods. His mouth still full, he mumbles, “Thes’s graht.” 

Mike laughs. “Thanks, Rich. I got it out of a can.” 

He swallows. “Still fucking better than little bags of pretzels.” 

“I’ll give you that.” 

Richie takes a bite of his sandwich. The filling pushes out of the bun and falls to the plate below him. “Shit,” he whispers to himself, but lets it be, otherwise. And then, he turns to Mike. “So, how’s UCF? Do any of the hot students hang out in special collections?” 

Mike chortles and washes his food down with this IPA. “Don’t really notice.” 

“Oh come on.” 

“Really.” Mike shrugs. “I do a lot of the administrative stuff -- promotion with the university, tours and research. That kind of thing. If I see students at all I’m mostly cataloging or cross-referencing with grad students, otherwise, yelling at freshmen to wash their hands before touching the manuscripts” 

“But are they hot though?” 

“The  _ freshmen _ ? _ ”  _

Richie shrugs. “Any of ‘em.” 

Mike shakes his head. “I...guess? Some of them?” 

“Nice. Real descriptive there.” 

“Oh, I’m being vague on purpose. I don’t want any of my students popping up in one of your sets.” 

“Damn.” Richie clenches a fist to the sky. “So close.” 

He can almost sigh -- at the very least, this means Mike still thinks he’s at liberty to just add whatever he wants to in his work. 

It  _ should  _ be a relief. A reaffirmation of his ability to keep shit confidential. 

So why does it make his shoulders want to collapse into themselves? Why does he wanna hurl? 

Covering his mouth with his hand, pretending to wipe his lips, he changes the subject. “So, what’s it like being the youngest person in the state of Florida?” 

“We were just talking about eighteen-year-olds.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I got that.” Richie waves his hands, uninterested. “What do you do for fun? Play shuffleboard and bingo?” 

Mike shakes his head, presses one hand into the tabletop lightly and stokes the dog’s scruffy head with the other. “Mr. Chips and I do agility on weekends. But at the end of the day, I’m usually so tired I’ll just lie down and read.” 

“Riveting life you’ve got there, Mikey.” 

“It works for me,” Mike says, not terribly interested in following the line of thought. 

“So do you just socialize with your books?” 

Mike shrugs. “There are people around.” 

But, even as he talks, he’s looking fondly down at Mr. Chips and

And, well, that’s just sad. 

Not that he’s exactly swimming in friends back in California….

And he doesn’t even have a dog…

Okay. Maybe he’s projecting. A little. 

So, he says, “As long as you’re finding ways to keep satisfied…” 

And he’s almost to some half-baked joke, but - perhaps miraculously, for Mike’s sake, Richie’s phone starts ringing. Caller I.D shows an old photograph of Eddie, frustratedly flipping off the screen. “One sec,” he says to Mike before pressing the green button on his screen. “Go for Trashmouth.” 

“Hey,” Eddie says. “What are you up to tonight?” 

“Um. I’m...hanging out with Mike.” 

“Mike? Is he in Derry _ ?”  _

_ " _ No." 

"....so you're in  _ Florida?"  _

“Yeah. I had a layover.” 

“Layover? You’re going back to California?  _ Now?  _ I didn’t know that. The fuck? _ ”  _

Oh shit. In his rush to turn tail, he’d forgotten to tell Eds he was leaving. “Yep.” 

The line is silent. Richie checks the signal. It’s fine. The connection is. 

“Oh. Well. Thanks for telling me, I guess.” Eddie’s voice cuts through again. Then he says, “Can I talk to Mike?” 

“Can’t you just call him?” 

“He’s right fucking there, just hand him the phone.” 

“Fine.” 

“Fine.” 

And Richie hands Mike the phone. Mike who quirks his head, confused, but takes it. “Everything good, Eddie?” 

Richie can’t hear what Eddie’s saying, but he can tell the high tone, the speed. And Mike looks up at the ceiling, but - good-naturedly - says, “Yes ...no ...he  _ seems  _ okay...” He pauses, looks over to Richie, and then goes on. “Why does it matter how I’m answering? Like, noon? Okay. Mmhmm. All right. Have a good night, Eddie. Mmhmm. Bye.” 

He taps the red button on Richie’s phone and hands it back to him. “He’s pissed.” 

Richie blows out. Taking his glasses off to clean them, he grumbles. “What else is new?” 

“Okay.” And Mike - bless him - rolls with it. No third degree. Just a different, only tangentially related question. “So. Um. Did you see Bill? How’s he doing?” 

“Barely.” Richie shrugs. “He seemed okay. Just workshopping a new ending to shit. He’s kind of all over the place.” 

Mike nods, understanding the tumultuous cycle that was Bill with a new draft. And then, he asks, “What about you?” 

Richie leans down to pat Mr. Chips on the head. The dog has positioned himself directly between them, eyes searching for any fragment of a morsel they might drop. And - fuck - it’s so cute that if Mike wasn’t such a stickler about his ‘No People Food’ rule, Richie totally would’ve obliged him. To answer the question, he says, “I probably shouldn’t complain but - eh - fuck it. Downtime’s the worst.” 

“Don’t you ever get tired?” 

“Of working?” 

“Of performing.” 

Richie looks up. Mike’s pulling the IPA bottle away from his lips. “How do you mean?” 

Mike shrugs. “I guess I’d just be relieved to have some time to hang out with everyone and not have to worry about how you’re coming off. Just being able to relax.” 

“Fuck no,” Richie rings, patting Mr. Chips’s head before turning back to Mike. “That sounds boring as shit.” 

“Well. Suit yourself,” He says. “But try not to burn yourself out.” 

“No promises.” Because - of course - where would the fun be in that?

* * *

Richie isn’t tired by the time Mike has to turn in for the night, and so he reclines on the hide-a-bed, Mr. Chips laid out on his lap. He thinks, for two seconds, about finding something funny to Tweet, but he's not particularly in the mood. Instead, he scrunches Mr. Chips’s face, shaking the floppy ears, cooing, “What a good dog. Who’s a good boy? Is it you?” And Mr. Chips’s tail hits the side of his knee, and laughs. “Yeah, it is.” 

And this canine company is reassuring. It’s  _ nice,  _ if nothing else. 

So. Yeah. Maybe the whole setup isn’t as sad as Richie had initially thought. 

He stands corrected. 

* * *

Richie’s flight doesn’t leave till afternoon, and so, with the promise of a shorter Uber ride, leaves with Mike that morning. It’s not that he wants to hang out in the library, but - he figures - it’s better than sitting at the airport for six hours. 

And, of course, all this to say that Mike is fucking  _ going for it,  _ at 8:30 in the morning, lying out hundreds-year-old manuscripts and logging shit into his computer. For Richie’s part, he’s barely able to keep his head up. There’s one very small corner of the room that he can sit in with his drink. It seems excessive, but hell, Mike probably knows what he’s talking about. 

It’s been a couple hours, and Mike’s still going at it. Richie doesn’t know if there’s anyone else in the world who stays  _ that  _ on, that long, on the clock. He’d always figured that  _ everyone  _ goes on Twitter or something on the clock. And, there’s Mike, buzzing from one place to another. 

He’s all excited, though. It’s nice to see him doing something he seems so interested in. 

* * *

Mike drives Richie to the airport during his lunch break. Every lane is packed and inch-slow, but Mike is calm as anything else, munching, whenever traffic screeches to a halt, on the chicken wrap he’d grabbed before they left. (Richie has scarfed his down in two seconds.) 

And they chat. Richie makes fun of the old drivers, and the rented mini-vans full of kids on their way to Disney or Universal, and Mike chuckles and lets him go on and on. It makes the drive go by faster. And before Richie knows it, he’s about to go through security, and wishing Mike the best and giving him a nice forearm-clasp-and-hug, finishing it off with, “Remember, don’t let any of the snow-birds suck away what’s left of your youth,” and heading through the metal detectors.

Reunion over. Just like that. Less than twenty-four hours, and he’s gone. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Los Angeles **

The flight itself, from Orlando International to LAX is five hours long. It’s one of those situations where geography is a total bitch, because you see that you leave at 1:30 and arrive at 4:45. But then fucking time zones have to be a part of this. And -- it’s fine. It’s all good. Richie can play pong on airplane mode, and there’s always SkyMall, and failing  _ that,  _ he could always just take a nap. 

It’s weird, being alone again, after this past week. He’s not alone in the  _ literal  _ sense, considering how many people are crammed like sardines into this fucking plane. 

Whenever he flies, Richie usually defaults to business class (because he can afford it, and because he needs the fucking legroom). But he’d run so fast from Derry that he just had to take whatever economy seat was left. 

It feels like his knees are cutting into his sternum. Christ, have they always been this  _ knobby _ ? And he can’t get a good angle, but, plugging in earphones and turning to an in-flight episode of  _ Jackass,  _ and - before he knows it - he’s hanging his head and drifting off. 

He wakes up to the pilot’s voice ringing over the intercom. “We are beginning our descent into LAX. It’s 4:45 pm and seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit, that’s twenty-four degrees centigrade.” She says, “As we begin our descent, please lift your seats to their upright position and secure the table tray in front of you. Please remain in your seat with your seatbelt on until we are fully stopped at the gate. We hope you had a pleasant flight and a wonderful rest of your day.” 

Richie groggily lifts his head, and instantly winces. He grabs at the back of his neck, kneading out soreness. His neck throbs and his legs are stiff. And there’s no reason to even  _ start in on  _ the soreness in his lower back. Fuck _ .  _ He feels ancient _ .  _

When the hell did this happen? 

Natural hazard of flying economy, but still _ .  _

He shuffles around in the long line, standing there. A little old lady asks if he’d be a dearie and grab her bag from the upper compartment. He is, and so he does, but otherwise, he’s left with no human interaction till the rote, practiced farewell from the flight attendants. 

And then, after. Everyone’s spilling in and swirling around him, but nobody’s  _ there.  _ Everyone’s just keeping up with the wave of the crowd, from their gate to baggage, and, for some, out to their loved ones. Others to the car rentals. Others, still, to the bus terminal. 

Richie’s headed to long term parking. And because he wasn’t about to leave the Mustang in just any parking garage, he has to wait for the valet to bring it around. 

He tips the guy and, without fuss, gets into the driver’s seat. 

He peels out of the airport, and immediately finds himself in the din and smog he’s gotten so used to. The bitchy satisfaction of the people in the carpool lanes, rubbing it in every lonesome person’s stationary face. The mirage waving in front of him in the skyline. The purr of the car, on the rare occasion Richie gets to cruise before he leaves the city proper. 

It’s amazing how quickly everything turns back to normal. 

\---and, maybe, just a little depressing. 

Not that Richie’s normal is, of itself a depressing thing. It just keeps on hitting him over the fucking head that, well, there’s nobody around. He’s in a fucking different time-zone, and it might as well be another planet. 

But, it’s fine. He’s just getting used to the transition, again. He’d had to get used to this before, way back when he’d moved out here, and he’s sure he’ll get his sea legs again. 

His muscle memory doesn’t fail him, if nothing else, the next afternoon as he’s waltzing right into the elevator and punching floor 16 to make his way up to Steve’s office. 

They were supposed to meet half an hour ago, but Richie hadn’t anticipated the traffic. So. Yes. He’s just re-adjusting. 

But Steve doesn’t seem to care, waving Richie in with one hand and gesturing to his Bluetooth earpiece with the other. He says into it, “Absolutely. Yes. I’ll talk to you next week. Okay. Bye now,” and he hangs up. Swiveling on his chair, he says, “Rich. Come on in.” 

He says this, even though Richie’s already sitting his usual place on the sofa. Must just be habit. 

“We are all set to start figuring out the logistics of New York.” Steve continues. “So, I’m gonna go ahead and book your hotel for that. Is the Hilton okay?” 

Honestly, there’s a small part of Richie that wants to say,  _ ‘Hold off on the hotel. I’ve got a friend who lives in Queens…’  _

But, maybe that’s just the part of him that’s gotten a little too comfortable couch-surfing. The line needs to stop somewhere. 

Besides, it’d be kind of shitty to disappear on Eddie like that, and then turn around and ask to crash. 

So. Instead, Richie nods. “Yeah. That’s fine.” 

“Your writers did some revisions while you were gone...” Steve searches through his stack, and comes up with a thick white stack, held together by a straining paper clip.

Richie frowns even as he reaches for it. “Without me?” 

Usually, he’s at least in the room. Pretending like he has any semblance of veto power. 

“They said it’s  _ topical,”  _ Steve shrugs. “You can go ahead and bring back your notes on those whenever. But, anyway, let’s switch gears and start workshopping your tour for next year…” 

And so it goes. He’s glad to be back, working, Steve running him by various venues they’re courting for the tour. It’ll be in the fall so they can stop by some college campuses, get some asses in the cheap seats. They’re considering swinging up above the northern border and doing a show in Toronto, or maybe Vancouver, or both. 

A couple of months on the road, even if it’s a year from now, doesn’t sound too bad. It’s long enough that it’d justify getting a bus, for Richie and the crew, and the opener. It’s always close-quarters when they do it like that, but it’s better than the long stretches of road, empty and quiet, that lead him windingly from point A to B. 

In the meantime, he’s got scripts to look over, and - apparently - there’s a new cartoon for adults that just got greenlit on Fox. They asked about Richie as a recurring guest star. Which is actually super fucking cool, but Steve asserts that they should probably keep their feelers out, a little longer. Just in case, you know, it’s  _ shit.  _

* * *

When Richie gets out of the meeting, he doesn’t want to go home. Just the idea of inhabiting the space, stuffing popcorn in his cheeks, and sitting alone on the couch and watching TV all night seemed...lonely.

So, what can he do? He gets behind the wheel of his car and takes off from the parking garage. It’s easier to make a right turn, so he does, and heads down the strip, no particular destination in mind. 

It feels a little like autopilot, driving down the road. He turns off the main highway, and starts on the winding maze, getting lost in the place he lives, turning round and round and round. 

* * *

He gets himself oriented in a parking lot. He’s only a couple miles from home, but it’ll probably take him an hour to get home. If he leaves now, he won’t miss rush hour. Sighing, he looks out from the windshield, just to see if he wound up anywhere with anything fun to do.

There’s an Exxon and a McDonald’s across the street. A Laundromat kitty-corner from him. And, on the other end, a small burnt-orange building, made of bricks. The sign is generic, lit from behind:  _ Dances with Woofs Animal Rescue.  _

Well, it’s not the fuckin’ ASPCA or anything. But it’ll work. He can pet dogs for a couple hours before he goes home, he figures. Maybe even get on a list to volunteer to walk them. Or something. 

Richie shrugs and pushes himself out of the car, walking towards the door. 

No sooner does the bell above the door ring, than Richie’s immediately greeted with a loud, high pitched barking. Over and over again. He looks down to see the fucking fluffiest pomeranian looking up at him, big black eyes wide, jumping a little in place. And howling. Just. Fucking going for it. 

Richie looks up, past the counter. Nobody. “Hello?” He calls towards the back. 

The pomeranian, it seems, does not like that shit one bit. The animal just keeps on going at it. 

“ _ Hey,”  _ Richie says, not entirely sure what he’s doing. “Um. Sit?” 

And, by whatever fucking miracle, the dog obeys. The little rump hits the concrete floor, tail thumping. 

Oh, fuck, that’s adorable. 

Crouching down, Richie holds out his hand. The pomeranian's tail continues to thump, and as Richie clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth, the dog approaches his hand, sniffing at it. And then, with some big neve, looks back up at him with something Richie can only link to  _ betrayal.  _ Just like Mr. Chips when he doesn’t share the people food. 

The dog barks again, but then presses its tiny fucking paws up on Richie’s knee. And presses its tiny little fucking snoot up to his cheek. 

That’s. That’s just super cute. It’s so small. 

“Whoa, there. We just met.” Richie laughs, petting the dog’s head. His hands go down its fluffy head, checking for a collar. Just to see if it belongs to anybody, maybe a worker, since there’s no other reason for an animal to just roam the shelter, freebirding it. There is no identifiable marker of ownership. 

The dog just goes on, sniffing at his hair, and wagging that fucking fluffy tail and, for a moment, Richie’s heart feels full. 

“Well, shit,” He mutters, aloud but mostly to himself. Because it’d be weird for him to address the dog. Right? “I’m getting a fucking dog today. Aren’t I?”

It really should be more of a surprise. But, honestly, if Richie isn’t deluding himself, there weren’t many other reasons for him to even come into this animal rescue, were there? 

The pomeranian just goes on wagging, taking its hind legs and trying to climb up into his lap, a little gurgle in the back of its throat. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Richie says, moving to scratch behind the dog’s ears, and crouch in such a way that it could balance on his knee. “I know exactly what you’re doing, you little bitch.” 

And the dog just keeps on wagging; it barks again and puts its front legs on his shoulder. 

“And I guess you do too.” 

Richie stands again, hits the bell at the desk. And, this time, the door to the back swings open. A frazzled young woman flings herself through the door. Her eyes immediately swing to the pomeranian, tucked under his arm. “Oh, my God, Fluffy, you broke out.” 

_ Fluffy? For real?  _

Richie looks over to the dog, eyes switching between them. “Quite the welcoming committee you’ve got.” 

The young woman shrugs. “Yeah. Sorry about that. She’s a new owner-surrender. I don’t think she’s used to being in a kennel.” 

“Is she adoptable?” 

And, next thing Richie knows, he’s signing paperwork, looking over vet records and changing her name. 

He purchases a slip-on leash from the rescue, and leaves with $520 less than he had when he walked in, but with a brand new friend, jumping around by his ankles. 

* * *

PetCo is a danger to society. And, while Richie’s thankful that there’s one on his way home, he can’t help but continue to fill up the cart. And not just with the necessary shit (the water bowls, a collar, treats, the like) but - surely she’ll need a little bed, and some toys, and - okay, he’s not sure when he’ll use it, but they have fucking pomeranian sized heart-sunglasses, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t fucking buy that. 

And, when he’s done, he’s got two paper bags chock-full of shit that he isn’t even entirely sure he needs. 

He’s never had a dog before. It only occurs to him, driving back, with the animal staring out the passenger’s window, barking at passersby, that he might just have no idea what he consented to. If he  _ can  _ do this. 

But - fuck it - he’s gotta try. 


	8. Chapter 8

It’s a bit of a walk from the parking lot, up to Richie’s condo. And the new dog is just going wild, running from corner to corner, as far as the lead will allow, smelling everything. Richie smiles and takes it in stride, balancing the giant paper bags in his arms, as well as he can. 

Using muscle memory and his periphery, Richie can tell that they’re approaching the house when the gurgling and panting turns - instantly - to barking. 

“Hey! Hey! Calm down,” He tries to assert, but finds it impossible to say anything with force under the weight of kibble and chew toys. “What the fuck’s got you so excited?” 

And, it happens so quickly, Richie can’t be sure what’s happened till it’s done, someone reaches their hands out, taking one of the bags from Richie’s arms. 

Before he can even ask what the fuck just happened, he looks up and the recognition pops up so fast that he almost drops the remaining bag in his hand. 

“Bev? Ben? What the  _ fuck _ guys?” 

Beverly laughs, pushing one of the bags onto her hip. “We were in town and thought we’d stop by.” 

“In town? Was Chicago too cold or something?” 

Bev shakes her head. “I’ve got a meeting with  _ Flaunt _ . Ben’s being courted to design a new apartment building. So we figured we’d schedule them together and kind of make a week of it.” 

“Well, shit guys, that’s great!” Richie says. He’s fishing through his pockets for his keys, now that he’s got a hand free. 

“Thanks,” Bev says. Ben crouches down, offering a hand to the dog. She gestures down to the two of them. “So, Richie, when did this happen?”

“Um. An hour ago.” 

Beverly snickers, her free hand pushing up to cover the smile. Ben looks up, brows knitted together. 

“I’m sorry,” Ben begins. “Did you impulse buy a dog?” 

“Nah. That’d be irresponsible,” Richie says, finally getting his house key from the ring. “I impulse  _ adopted  _ a dog. Totally different.” 

“What’s her name?” Beverly changes the subject, helping Richie with the door as they all slide though. 

“Little Bitch.” 

Again, Beverly cracks up, placing her bag on the card table Richie uses instead of an actual dining setup Ben looks deeply,  _ deeply _ disappointed in him - frown etched onto his face. 

“I’m thinking I’ll call her Little B for short. Haven’t decided yet.” 

“Well.” Ben, placing both hands on his hips, leans down to Little B, clicks his tongue. “Welcome to your new life, dog-o.” 

* * *

As evening begins, they’re on the balcony. Richie isn’t exactly swimming in balcony furniture, so Bev and Ben are seated on foldable camping chairs. For himself, Richie’s dug out an old bean bag chair from the depths of his closet. Little B snuggles in on his lap. 

Richie’s bummed a cigarette from Bev, and they exhale long streams of smoke over each other, dancing around animated conversation. Ben, for his part, busies his hands with Candy Crush and looking out into the skyline.

It’s nice, this little impromptu reunion. Bev and Ben have gone over all their stories of professional escapades, all the bullshit from the offices. Bev dealing with insufferable magazine editors and Ben dealing with people trying to strongarm him into overfilling apartment complexes. They both stand firm. Richie’s got every confidence that they’ll continue to. It’s just the kind of people they are. 

The sun’s starting to go down. The pink and orange in the sky looks grayer than it did back East, through the hot smog. 

Ben slides his phone into his back pocket and leans on his elbows. “So, how are you doing? We heard you left Derry earlier than you were supposed to.” 

Richie pats Little B and exhales his smoke away from her little puppy face. He taps at the cigarette and shrugs. “Do you all have a fucking group text without me or something?” 

Ben pulls a face and shakes his head. “No. We talked to Stan on the phone.” 

Richie nods and waves his free hand around on Little B’s fluffy back. “Yeah. Well. I can only stay in that fucking place for so long, y’know? I start to get that New England twang back and all of a sudden, back here, it’s, ‘You’ve  _ changed _ Richie.’” 

“Don’t you hate it when they do that?” Bev exhales a long blue plume of smoke. The cigarette dangles between her fingers. “Act like you did something really wrong, make you stew in it, and then turn around and - actually, no. It’s all fine.” She scoffs. “As though we don’t know what gaslighting is.” 

“Shit, Bev, what happened to  _ you  _ at work?” 

She waves her hand, dismissive. “The legal battle for my half of the line from Tom continues.” 

Beside her, Ben reaches over and squeezes her knee. She takes her free hand and runs a thumb over his knuckles. 

“He’s not…” Richie asks, unwilling to verbalize the question he’s asking. 

“No,” Bev says. “I haven’t seen him in a few years. Silver lining.” 

“We are a little concerned he might try and show up at the wedding though,” Ben says. “But there’s security at the venue.” 

Richie frowns. Inhaling deeply, he lets the fire shoot back into his lungs. And, when he exhales, he says, “Well,  _ shit.  _ That’s horrifying.” 

Sitting up straighter again, shaking herself back into the moment, Bev looks over to Richie. “Yeah, but, it’s gonna be okay.” 

“...what?” 

Bev nods. “We’re trying not to let fear change anything about it. That’s what he wants - to ruin the wedding, the marriage, my  _ career.  _ At a certain point, you just have to say, ‘You can’t touch me,’ and live your life. At some point, you can’t keep doing this to yourself.” 

“How enlightened of you. You’ve been in therapy, haven’t you?” 

“For the past five years.” 

“So, what’s that like? Do you lie back on a leather couch and listen to an old guy in a beard tell you that all your problems stem from penis envy?” 

Laughing, Beverly shakes her head. “I haven’t quite gotten that tactic yet.” 

Richie throws a hand up. Little B jumps up, eyes trained on his hand, as though expecting a scrap of chicken from his fingers. “Then what are you even  _ doing  _ there?” 

“Well, thank you, Dr. Freud. I think you just pieced it all together.” 

And, maybe there’s a certain level of sarcasm there, but it’s so taken away in Bev’s grin and smile, that - he’s sure - it’s all fine. 

But the air’s gotten a little too heavy for comfort, and, with a subject change in order, Richie moves his free hand to distract Little B, and helps them take a left turn, conversationally. 

“Hey, Ben. You’re an architect. Have you been to Legoland lately? ‘Cause I’ve got a  _ thing  _ I want to do here.”

“A...thing?” Ben asks, ticking his head to the side like some kind of sexy-manly-puppy. 

“Yes. A  _ thing.”  _

The three of them launch, for a bit, into something lighter, freer -- something inconsequential, just enjoying the company, without the weight of the outside world pressing down on any of them. 

And, too soon, Ben’s turning to Bev. “We should probably check into the hotel.” 

“You’re not going to a fucking hotel,” Richie intercedes, tapping his cigarette into the old coffee can he uses for an ashtray. He exhales, careful to turn his head away from Little B. “I’ve been couch surfing for fucking ever, lemme pay it forward or something.” 

“You sure?” Bev asks. “You just got back. You really wanna host?” 

Richie nods, making sure to be slow about it. “I mean, I don’t have any food in my fridge. But mi casa is su casa.” 

Ben and Bev look at each other, having some kind of silent conversation. Richie wonders if it’s something that comes from being so in love, being able to talk like that, or just that they know each other so well. After a beat, Ben looks back over to Richie. “If you’re sure.” 

“Yes, I’m fucking sure. We  _ will _ need to stop and get some sheets for the pullout couch, though.” 

Both Bev and Ben laugh. “Okay, deal,” Bev says, taking a long drag from her cigarette. 

And - it might be a little pathetic to admit - it’s nice to know that, when he crawls into bed tonight, that he’s got friends, just on the other side of the wall. 

He knows he has to get used to it again. And eventually, he will. But, just for a couple more nights? He can count on one hand the amount of times he’s ever felt this grateful. 

And, in the meantime, that’s enough. 

* * *

The sun’s already up in the sky, and the spring heat is already starting to creep up Richie’s back when he takes Little B out for her morning walk. Ben walks beside him, hands in his pockets, and a small smile on his face. Beverly had left, a little bit ago, for her meeting at  _ Flaunt,  _ and so Ben and Richie were pretty much left up to their own devices. 

And it is fucking depressing that the best thing either of them thought to do was take the dog out. 

Of course, there’s a fucking laundry list of bullshit to do. He needs to find a vet for Little B. He could pay his fucking bills. Repair the leaky faucet. 

But surely,  _ surely,  _ there is something more exciting to do in the whole city of Los Angeles. “But, like,” Richie says to Ben, untangling himself from the leash and how Little B has run zig-zags around him. “If you weren’t staying with me, what would you have done while Bev’s in her meeting?” 

Ben runs his hand through his hair. A few silver strands catch in the light. “Well, I was honestly thinking about going to the Natural History Museum…” 

“Nerd alert,” Richie says before he can help himself. 

“No, it’s actually really cool. And you asked.” 

“Okay, fine _ ,”  _ Richie says, noticing Little B starting to squat and stopping to fish through his pockets for a bag. “But if we’re doing your nerdy thing, we’re getting drinks after.” 

“That seems like a fair trade.” 

They return to Richie’s condo, and Richie pours Little B her breakfast portion of kibble and refreshes her water, and before they know it, they’re out the door, headed to the Natural History Museum. 

* * *

Richie’s never been much of a museum guy. Not that they don’t have any kind of value, but everything is just so  _ slow _ there. Placards and dioramas and exhibits and...yeah, sure, a big recreation of fucking dinosaur bones is fucking awesome. But why ruin it by  _ reading _ about it? 

And, so, he’s perusing around the dinosaur hall, several steps ahead of Ben. The fossils hang over their heads, tall and overwhelming. He’s, actually, really fucking glad that these scaly-feathered motherfuckers all died out before he came along. Even though it might be kind of cool to have some kind of  _ Jurassic Park  _ situation, but - fuck that - he’s seen those movies and, standing there, in front of the bleached-out remains of a motherfucking T-Rex, makes him feel so small. 

He needs someone shorter to stand next to. Ben, apparently keeps fucking lifts in his shoes as though being just as tall as Richie isn’t enough, is approximately zero help as when he finally makes it to the same diorama, and says, “Isn’t it cool?” 

“Cool? Nah.” He says, even though it is. 

“I mean...just the whole idea that dinosaurs were so close to birds…evolution’s so unexpected sometimes.” 

_ Never change, Haystack.  _ Richie digs his hands into his pockets, as they meander out of the special exhibition, sliding around the swell of traffic. “It definitely changes the idea of what ‘eating like a bird’ means, though.” 

They make their way through the museum in much of the same manner - Richie blazing ahead, while Ben hangs back to educate himself. Richie stops in front of any given diorama or display that catches his attention, and then Ben catches up. And they’ll chat between exhibits, or until Ben finds something nerdy and informative to read, as though the fun of museums doesn’t rely entirely on making fun of this shit, and Richie goes ahead. 

But, it’s a decent routine they’re establishing. Separate and come together again, until the next time it’s necessary. And, hell -- it works. So why knock it? Even if he can’t quite say if it’s worth the price of admission. 

* * *

They’re expecting Beverly to be done by the time they finish meandering along the cavernous hallways of the museum, and so forego any other suggestion, in favor of returning to Richie’s condo to wait for her cab. They continue talking about nothing. Ben’s always been much more willing to sit in silence and simply take in the world around him. 

It’s not that Richie  _ needs  _ constant distraction, but if silence drags on too long, that means something’s wrong. And so he pulls observations from the air, comments with indiscretion, on the way to the parking garage, and during the whole ride home. He does manage to wring a few chuckles from Ben, and so that’ll be enough to consider a victory. 

* * *

When they get back to Richie’s, Little B’s little bark greets them at the door. Richie’s turned almost immediately to throw his keys down on the table, but Ben says, “Uh. Richie?”

“What’s up?” Richie pivots around to see Ben. 

Ben, whose eyes are pointed downwards, crooked smile halfway across his face. Richie follows his line of vision and

“Oh, shit.” 

There, on the ground, Little B sits in the middle of the living room. In front of her, a long line of shoes - probably every one Richie owns. The rubber end of a sneaker’s heel lays limp between her teeth and her jaws. Her tail wags madly. 

Ben erupts in laughter. “Okay. So. Separation anxiety. Probably good for you to know.” 

And Little B approaches Richie. She hops up on her hind legs and puts her tiny little paws on his knees. Richie can’t help it, and scoops her up a moment later. 

Ben, no longer beside him but crossing the room to help him re-match the shoes from the mismatched line, says, “You’re reinforcing the bad behavior.” 

“Well, the fuck am I supposed to do?” Richie asks. He can feel Little B’s fluffy tail wag next to his side. Her cold snoot sniffs at his shoulder. 

“For now?” Ben holds up the decimated Nike. “Hide your shoes.” 

Thankfully, Richie isn’t exactly a connoisseur of shoes. Little B only made it to the sneakers, but Richie’s Chucks, dress shoes, and flip flops were unharmed. And that was pretty much all he had. So, even with one ruined pair of shoes down, it wasn’t like he’d be walking around downtown L.A barefoot, or anything. But it’s still good advice, nonetheless. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is going to be on a brief hiatus. Probably just for the week or so - but the hiatus will last however long it takes me to get caught up on my seminar papers. The story is written in its entirety, but I prefer to take a last-minute read-through for editing and revision, so if I take _too_ long to get caught up, I'll resume my weekly/biweekly updates anyway.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sufficiently caught up on my seminar papers, so, we now return to the regularly scheduled biweekly updates! 
> 
> **/!\ This chapter deals with internalized homophobia and compulsory heterosexuality in a more direct way than the others. If that kind of thing could be triggering for you, please be careful! **

By the time Beverly knocks on the door of Richie’s condo, they’ve already secured the shoes from Little B and settled into a soccer game. 

“No, really,” Richie says to Ben, crossing the room to get the door. “I think  _ they _ need to pick up on your fucking workout routine.” 

Ben rolls his eyes, visibly squirming, but doesn’t say anything. 

It might just be because the second after, Richie opens the door. And in waltzes Beverly motherfucking Marsh, floating like on a cloud, smile big and expressive. She greets Richie with a little hug, like he hadn’t just seen her that morning, and walks over to kiss Ben, leaning over from behind him on the sofa. 

“You two are so sweet, I’m getting a cavity.” 

They look up at Richie, unimpressed, and Richie can only shrug. But, it only lasts a moment before Ben’s asking, “How’d it go?” 

Bev’s smile, if at all possible, grows. “I got it,” She says, “My line’s getting featured next month. They wanted mine. Not Tom’s.” 

“I knew it! ” Ben says, lit up brighter than it’s possible for any human being to light up, kissing her again. Her hand squeezes his shoulder. “That’s fantastic! I’m so happy for you, babe.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Congrats, Bev.” From his rickety little third wheel corner, Richie approaches. “And, I think it sounds like a celebration is in order.” 

* * *

To celebrate, none of them want something so formal as an actual restaurant. And none of them want to wade through the slush pile of twenty-one-year-olds sucking molly from pacifiers just to get some dancing in. So, they barely even debate about heading to a bar. Richie knows of one, in particular, in the area that doesn’t serve fancy aerated vodka vapors or kombucha with Baileys or whatever else it was the kids are doing these days. It’s just a bar, a stage where people perform sometimes, a jukebox, and good booze. 

They sit at the bar and toast a round of shots, in a toast to Bev’s new line getting picked up, and she’s filling them in about her meeting. 

As far as Richie can tell, it’s nothing at all like  _ The Devil Wears Prada.  _ And that’s fine. But that was going to be his entryway to be able to talk to Beverly about her job. So. It’s back to the drawing board. 

So. He just listens. Listens to how the meeting went, and how the people at the magazine showed her ready-made spreads of how they wanted to show the line, what kinds of things they wanted to do to show them. It sounds to Richie a little like he’s listening to Beverly talk in German - long, frightening sentences full of incomprehensible words - but with how she talks about it, he’ll endeavor to understand. 

* * *

Richie gets up, at one point, to slide his card into the jukebox. It’s one of those new, fancy ones that’s designed to look old, but runs digitally. They charge you five bucks to play some station on Pandora for three minutes, but - at some point - Richie had just needed to end the current madness that was Rihanna’s  _ Work  _ playing for the fifth time. It’s not like everyone can just tune it out. 

He swipes his card, taking a sip of his drink while he thinks, and figures he’ll just play AC/DC or Kiss or something when he feels a tap on his shoulder. Spinning around, he has to look down to see some girl in a glittery top and a long dark ponytail. She smiles at him. “I’m sorry. I know this is a really cliche thing to say in L.A but you look _really_ familiar.” A voice sounds next to Richie. He looks over, down, to the blonde ponytail that’d been in line in front of him. She squints, a little. “Are you an actor or something?” 

“Not exactly.” 

“Hm. Well, I know I’ve seen you. Web show, maybe?” 

“Definitely not.” Richie punches in AC/DC, making a decision, and turns back to Ponytail. 

“Give me a name, at least.” 

“Richie.” 

“Richie.” Ponytail pauses. Then, she nods, gasping in some big breath. “Oh! No way. Are you Richie Tozier?” 

“Guilty.” 

“Wow,” She says, like it’s at all uncommon to run into people in showbiz in the city of Los Angeles. “You’re really funny.” 

“Thanks,” He shuffles, preparing to make his exeunt back to the bar. 

“Well, I’m impressed.” Ponytail seems to have other ideas. She waits, and...is she biting her lip? Or is there something on it? “Stand-up, that’s really cool.” 

“It’s a helluva living,” Richie says, taking a sip of his drink. It’s starting to get warm. Since when does he fucking  _ nurse  _ his beverages? 

“I bet,” She says. And, then launches into, “So are you with friends, or?” 

Richie nods, gestures over to the bar, where Ben and Bev are deep in some conversation. They’re laughing, though, so it seems light. 

“Damn,” She says. “I would’ve loved to sit and talk about your stuff.” 

This shit happens pretty often. “I have a professional email address on my website.” Richie brings his drink to his lips again. 

“I didn’t mean like that.” 

Richie can’t help it. His jaw drops. Ponytail laughs. 

“What?” she asks. “I doubt nobody’s ever tried to pick you up in a bar before.” 

“Fuck, kid. I...are you even old enough to be in a bar?” 

“I’m exactly old enough.” 

There’s so much here that’s just...so wrong, he can’t decide which to latch onto. But, the one he does choose to latch onto is “So I’m literally twice your age.” 

Which...isn’t the issue at hand, but it’s decent enough of an excuse to back away. 

And she just smiles. “I come here most weekends with my friends. You know where to find me if you change your mind.” 

And Richie can’t do anything as she pivots away. He’s just locked standing there, gaze set forward on the ground. 

_ What in the fuck just happened?  _

And, well, he doesn’t feel like he has enough time to unpack  _ all  _ of that. But he can’t help but remind himself, as he’s hauling ass back to the bar, that there was a time he might’ve gone for it. 

The first time it happened, he was touring as an opener for some already-dried-out-has-been. Twenty-two years old and with his whole life in front of him. He had to share a hotel room with Steve and they’d get stoned by the pool and or hang out in the hotel bar because they weren’t good enough for the real schmoozing shit yet. But they’d had fun _ .  _ Up until one night, in Minneapolis. Steve had nudged him and said, “I think that girl’s been flashing you the signals.” 

“What?” Richie’s head felt fuzzy. It was the weed. Obviously. 

“The hot one, over there.” Steve gestured, not even trying to censor himself. The girl waved. Steve gave him a little victory gesture - a fist. “Dude, you’d be fucking nuts not to go for it.” 

“Right.” 

And, because Richie  _ wasn’t _ fucking nuts, he did. He took her back to his room. Put a sock on the door. 

It was supposed to be fun. Wasn’t it? 

That was the start of it. And he kept it up, for a little while, mostly in his twenties. He’d convinced himself that, over time, it’d get more fun than folding laundry. He’d sworn to himself, “It’ll be fun, once you get better at it.” 

But...Why try to force yourself to enjoy folding laundry? Why fold laundry at all? But -- sure, he’s folded laundry more recently than he cares to remember, and he can’t say he won’t fold more laundry in the future. Just to see if it gets more interesting over time. 

So far, it never has. And, sure, he knows why _ .  _ He’s known why his whole fucking life, at least as far back as he can remember. But does he have to be so  _ gay  _ about it? 

He reaches the bar, slides onto the stool next to Beverly. She looks over at him, and because her observational powers are fucking astute says, “You okay?” 

Richie nods. “Some kid just tried to get into my pants.” 

Beverly curls over the bar, head shaking with laughter. Even Ben’s chortling to himself. 

“Yeah yeah,” Richie says, “Yuck it up you two. But this is proof I’m still fucking sexy. So.” 

He knows that has nothing to do with it. He’s played this L.A game long enough to know that. She’s looking for an in at an agency or something like that. Hoping he’ll get her headshots to a producer. While it’s a little helpful, it still makes him feel like bugs are crawling up his back. 

Beverly shoots back the last of her mint julep and grabs her purse from where it’s sitting on the bar. Changing the subject, abruptly, she says, “I need to smoke. I’ll be right back,” She squeezes Ben’s shoulder, nothing but affection, and then turns over to Richie. “Wanna bum one?” 

Richie nods and says “Sure” and follows her, waving at Ben as he goes. 

* * *

He leans back against the brick facade of the bar, a few meters away so the sound from inside can dilute. As Beverly’s lighting up, he quirks his head over to her. “You know Ben’s gonna get solicited, like, fifty times while we’re out here.” 

Beverly nods, the orange glow of her lighter illuminating the tip of her nose. Talking around the stick between her teeth she says, “I’m sure. If I were someone else, I might too.” 

“I think that’s just how it works.” Richie takes the package from Beverly when she extends it to him. He pulls a cancer stick from the pack and lights up. Sucking in against the air, until it ignites. And then it’s warmth and clam, shooting back down his throat. 

Beverly pulls a face and contorts her lips up into some kind of half-grin half-grimace. “You know what I meant.” 

“I do.” Richie shuffles, examines the cinder at the end of his cigarette. “You guys seem good.” 

“We are. Wedding planning’s...a lot though. I’d rather just elope.” 

“Why don’t you?” 

Bev shrugs. “Ben’s never been married before. And we want you all there, anyway.” 

Even though marriage is so far off Richie’s radar, he hadn't considered it, but it checks out. It’d be fucking unthinkable to imagine starting something so new without all six of his friends. They’re Lucky Seven, after all. 

“What about everything else?” Richie asks, after taking a beat to feel the smoke glide around the insides of his cheeks. “Work seems good for you?” 

Richie knows nothing about the world of fashion, and can’t make any sense out of any of the shit Bev told him and Ben earlier. But it’s important to her. He’ll figure it out. 

Bev nods. “Yeah. I mean. You know. It’s kind of…” She takes a long breath. The cinder at the end of her cigarette crumbles into ash. “Off-putting? Everything’s just so new, right now.” 

“Freaky.” 

“Yeah, but it’s...” Beverly takes a long breath. The smoke cloud flies around her chin as she exhales. “It’s scary to just start everything over, but there’s something about proving you still can. That, no matter what happens, you can always start over.” 

“You need to do a fucking TED talk or something, Bev.” 

Bev lowers her brows and, when she exhales, she makes sure the plume of smoke hits directly on Richie’s face. 

They’re quiet for a moment, cigarettes depleting, down to the filters. Throwing them on the designated ashtray atop the trash can, they, mumbling inconsequential shit about the evening, head back into the bar. 

* * *

They stalk back into the living room, and the whole place is strewn with fluff from the couch. There are scratch marks on the front door. Little B lies, tail thumping, in a crater of her own making. Stuffing’s everywhere. She barks, excited, as they re-enter and, maybe, just maybe, that whole ‘reinforcement’ thing meant something… 

So, maybe this is going to be more of a problem than originally anticipated….

* * *

By the time Bev and Ben leave, a few days later, Richie’s already gotten used to them. He’s used to hearing the cupboards open and close while he’s lying in bed, thrown onto the edge of his mattress while Little B dreams sleepily in the very center. He’s used to having people to talk to and do things with. 

And now? Now that he’s bid them adieu at LAX, it’s just him and Little B. And that’s really fucking lonely. 

He knows a part of the reason he adopted her in the first place was to mitigate that. And, frankly, there’s something almost therapeutic brushing the tangles out of her fur and trying to teach her to roll over, but it simply isn’t the same as having friends in the house. 

But, fuck, he got used to it once, he’ll get used to it again. It’s just a matter of how to mitigate it in the meantime. 

He tries to busy himself with work, sitting through the writer’s meetings. He’ll give his two-cents, and it’ll usually get ignored, but he’s there so they can put his name on the credits and maintain the fantasy that he’s the one writing this shit. 

And Richie will keep busy and he’ll come home and brush Little B, and pet her weird dog-body, and try to return to what he’d once called normal. 

He’s got a show tomorrow. He’ll be in sound-check all afternoon, have a dinner break, and go back for the daytime. This is around the time he was supposed to be leaving Derry. Before the duck and cover. Running a brush over Little B’s back, he doesn’t even notice that he’s pulled his phone out until he’s thumbing absently through his contacts. He selects Eddie and pushes the speaker button, and only just now realizes that he’s done so. 

He won’t think too much about it. It’ll be nice to hear Eds’ voice. 

Eddie picks after two rings, and by way of greeting, snaps, “Do you even know what  _ time  _ it is in New York right now?” 

Richie looks down at his phone. For him, it’s 8:30 pm. And if New York is three hours ahead… 

“11:30?” 

“So you do know.” 

And Richie can practically  _ see  _ Eddie rolling over into his pillow, face sinking into the fluff. It’s cute, in his mind’s eye. 

“Were you sleeping?” Richie asks. He lays Little B in his lap, like a toddler, and brings the brush from her chin to her stomach. 

“Getting there.” 

“...you’re a grown-ass man. Do you still have a fucking bedtime?” 

“It’s self-inflicted,” Eddie says, curt. And then, “Do you need something?” 

“Just to hear your voice, babydoll,” Richie makes sure to use a sing-song tone, makes sure to make it light. 

From the other end, Eddie groans. “Well. You heard it. Can I go now?” 

“Wait.” And Richie doesn’t know where he’s going with this. But he treads forward, nonetheless. What he ends up saying is “I got a dog.” 

“... _ what _ ?” 

“Yeah. I went to the shelter and got myself a Pomeranian.” 

And, as though on cue, Little B gurgles. It’s loud enough, Richie’s sure that Eddie caught it over the speaker. 

“What the fuck? And why does this justify calling me in the middle of the night?” 

“Well, let me finish.” Richie speeds ahead. “Did you know I’m doing a show at Radio City in a month?” 

“Mmmhmm,” Eddie says. Richie can picture him rolling onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. Sleepily trying to keep his eyes open. 

And it’s kind of nice that Eddie’s noticed when Richie’s shows are coming into town. Assuming he’s actually noticed and isn’t just trying to get Richie off the line. 

“Well,” He says, making it up as he goes. “She’s got some separation anxiety, and she doesn’t like to be crated, She can be backstage during the set, but I’ll be running around too much during rehearsal.” 

“...are you asking me to watch your dog, right now?  _ Seriously? _ ”

Though, he supposes, this is just as presumptuous as that. But he’s already said it, so there’s no taking it back now. “Only for a little while. Like. An hour tops.” 

Eddie pauses. And then he sighs. “Sure. Just. Let me know when you’re coming or going.  _ Before  _ the fact.” 

“Ouch. That hurts.” 

“Just. Make an effort to be predictable.” 

“You got it.” And Richie’s smiling. He can’t help it. He’s moved on with the brush, working with small quick downward strokes to Little B’s tail. 

“Okay. Well.  _ I’m  _ gonna try and get to sleep now.” 

“Okay.” 

“...”

“...” 

“Goodnight?” 

“‘Night, Eds. I--I’ll see you in a month.” 

Eddie chuckles. It’s husky and in the back of his throat. “See you, Richie.” 


	10. Chapter 10

** New York City**

That month passes faster than Richie could anticipate. It all blurs by, running through writer’s meetings, through drafts of the script, promotions and all that shit. Richie had a hell of a time training Little B to use her traveling carry-case. Every time she’d have a total fucking conniption, barking and yowling her little throat hoarse. But, then,  _ finally -  _ with the right mixture of pig ears and peanut butter, he found a way to pacify her. 

He hopes the bribery doesn’t mean that he sucks at this dog-ownership thing. Mike never had to bribe Mr. Chips to do shit for  _ him… _

And now, sooner than he’d ever realize, he’s loading up into business class with Steve, who's already taken an Ambien and snoring before they even hit the air, and Little B lies down in her case, panting a small sob, at Richie’s feet. 

“Sorry ‘bout this, girl.” He murmurs, hoping no one else is focused enough on him to notice he’s talking to her. “It’ll be over before you know it.” 

* * *

Because of the way the schedule worked out, and because Steve Covali is a fucking champ at organizing said schedules, Richie has the rest of the day to unwind from the flight. Usually, he’d just immediately get transported to sound-check and rehearsal, and - usually - the show would be that night. 

But, it’s Friday. Richie has a whole day to shmooze and wine and dine NYC. He’s sure Steve means for this to be a networking opportunity, but for tonight, there’s nothing planned. He can sleep, or check out the comedy scene in the city or even do schticky tourist stuff. It’s a great opportunity. 

And, never let it be said that Richie isn’t one to take advantage of opportunities. 

  
  


* * *

It’s almost 7:30 by the time Eddie stalks in the lobby for dinner. He’s wearing a fucking suit jacket, and Richie can’t help himself when his eyes drag up from the tips of Eddie’s shoes to his hands, pulling at the knot from his tie. Richie also can’t stop himself from asking, “What’s with the monkey suit?” 

“I just got off work, asshole,” Eddie says, coming to a half in front of the couch and gestures to Little B, curled up in his lap. “Are you gonna introduce me to the puffball?” 

Richie sweeps a hand to invite Eddie to sit. As he does, he makes the introduction. “Eddie, this’s Little B.” 

“Little B?”

“It’s short for Little Bitch.” 

“Goddammit, Richie. Do you ever just  _ stop  _ and  _ think? _ ” Eddie continues to mumble under his breath. But then, he looks down at Little B, tentatively scratching her behind the ears. She leans in, pressing all five pounds of herself into Eddie’s hands. “That’s a good girl.” 

Eddie’s smiling at Little B. Richie’s melting. 

“Can she come into the hotel restaurant?” Eddie turns back to him. And Richie smiles, just because he hasn’t seen that fire in Eddie’s eyes in way too fucking long. 

Richie has to purposely drag himself back into the moment. “Um. Don’t think so. We might just have to get room service.” 

“This dog has you fucking whipped.” 

“Hey. Fuck off. Just because I don’t want her to destroy the room…” 

“Hold on. Destroy the room? What makes you think she won’t destroy  _ my  _ place?” 

“She likes things that smell like a person. She’ll be fine.” 

“The fuck?” 

Richie shrugs. “Hell if I know.  _ I  _ can’t smell it.” 

“That sounds really fake.” 

“I’m only repeating what the vet told me.” 

“And how does the vet know?” 

Richie holds up his hands, semi-protest, and semi-defeat. Little B turns to look at him. Displeasure crinkling in her snout. “I’m sure they teach you this shit in vet school.” 

“Fine,” Eddie says, finally reaching up to strip off his tie entirely. It hangs loose behind his neck. “But if she fucking ruins anything, you’re paying for it.” 

“Obviously,” Richie says, tucking Little B under his elbow. “C’mon. Let’s go get dinner.” 

* * *

There’s something about laying back on the couch in his fancy modernist hellscape of a hotel suite, watching Eddie pour over the room service menu for any possible molecule of gluten, soy, or egg that may be lurking, that makes Manhattan feel more like home. Eddie’s rattling off a long list, about how if he eats a cashew he could realistically die, and how a lot of menus don’t even make their shit clear before he looks up at Richie. And, he must be drawing on something from Richie’s face, because he glares. “ _ What?”  _

Richie shakes his head. But rather than say anything indicative of what he’s thinking, he says, “Are you actually allergic to any that shit?” 

“Yes.” 

“Have you been tested?” 

“You’re an asshole.” Eddie sticks the menu up to his nose. Conversation over. 

And, yes. Richie is being a little bit of an asshole. It just sucks to see such a fucking backslide. In anyone, but something about it hurt so much more with Eddie. 

Because --  _ well  _ \-- it’s Eddie. 

Eddie who, in a glorious shining moment at thirteen, called Mrs. K out on her bullshit. Eddie who, in that same summer, got his arm broken in an abandoned building, literally flipped the script when Greta Keane tried to brand him through his cast. Eddie who, with all his rantings and ravings, has the most expressive face on the planet. 

He’s done so fucking much, been through so much, if anyone on the planet deserves a linear trajectory -- up, up, up, up and up only -- it’s fucking Eddie Kaspbrak. 

Richie doesn’t know how Eddie could walk away from all that without realizing how fucking spectacular he is. How could he ever start to believe, again, that anything could kill him, or that chaotic mess of energy that makes him buzz? That he needs to rely on medicine and overbearing caretakers? 

A lifetime of lies and guilt trips - first from Mrs. K and then from Myra - Richie figures, would do it. 

But it’s a fucking crime either way. 

Maybe baby steps are better than nothing, he figures, about at the same time Eddie settles on a decision. They spring for steak, because it’s a fucking special occasion. And a bottle of merlot, just for the hell of it. 

  
  


* * *

They’re only a few bites into the steak when Richie asks, “So, how’s the bachelor life treating you?” 

Eddie’s so fucking red. Richie accidentally bites down on the inside of his cheek instead of the meat and has to swallow back his wince. 

“It’s fine,” He says, poking at his plate with the fork. “I just work.” 

Richie lets out a snore, drips his head down to his chin, until he hears the ever-so-familiar “Fuck you” and feels something hit his head. 

It looks like broccoli, for the short moment he can see hit the floor before Little B pounces to snarf it up. 

Richie turns back to Eddie, with what he’s hoping is an apologetic expression on his face. He sobers. “You were saying?” 

Eddie chews and swallows his food. Washing it down with the wine, he presses his lips together. “I don’t even know what you want me to say. I’m trying to put my fucking life back together. So, yeah, I get that it’s really fucking boring to you, but it’s kind of a big fucking deal to me.” 

“Hey, hey.” Richie puts his plate aside. He turns to face Eddie more directly. “I’m a dick, man. I’m sorry.” 

“ _ Christ,  _ Richie.” Eddie drains his glass and, in the next fell moment, pours himself more wine. “It’s only been a month.” 

Richie pauses. He’s chewing on his lip. And before he knows what’s come over him, he asks, “Do you miss her?” 

“What kind of fucking question is that? Yeah, I do. Do you have any idea how daunting it is to have to pick a new emergency contact for  _ all  _ your medical records? And we were, like, ten years from paying off the house.” 

Richie pauses. Holds his breath. He probably shouldn’t say anything. But, Richie’s never been great at the whole self-control thing. “Do...do you realize you didn’t mention Myra in any of that?”

“Oh, fuck off.” Eddie’s head snaps over to him. “Didn’t I?” 

Richie shakes his head. “Not unless she’s changed her name to Medical Records or Mortgage.” 

Eddie looks down at the ground. And then, without another word, shoots back his entire wine glass. 

They sit there, Little B’s panting the only noise, before Eddie looks up. “Do you ever just feel...fucked?”

“Every day of my life,” Richie says, clapping a hand on Eddie’s back as he scoffs as the reply. And then, he continues. “You’re not, though.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “I don’t believe you.”

“Why the fuck not?” Something pricks at Richie, deep from his stomach. He adjusts, pillow cast aside, so he’s sitting at the edge of the couch. His knee hits Eddie’s leg. “Hey. Who clocked Belch fucking Huggins in his big fat head during the infamous Rock War of ‘89?” 

Eddie’s brows go down. “...me?” 

“Who saved all our asses by being the only one who knew how to change a tire when the car broke down before prom?” 

“Me.” 

“Who rose so quickly at his boring-ass-fucking-job that he was running that shit by the time he was thirty?” 

“I don’t  _ run it,  _ I was put in charge of an investment banker and that made me--” 

“Eds. You’re kind of missing my point.” 

And Eddie looks him in the eye. They’re so brown, so deep. Wide. He’s got the smallest smile on his face when he concedes, voice reverberating without edges. “Fine. It was me.” 

“Fuck yeah it was.” Richie smiles, reaching up and patting Eddie on the cheek. “You’re gonna get through this.” 

Eddie’s legs fold underneath him. He hits the back of the couch with a soft thud, adjusting himself back to Richie. “I know.” 

“You’re one of the strongest dudes I know. One little divorce isn’t gonna keep you down.” 

Eddie’s lips press together. He stares up at the ceiling - dead forward and blank. Mind swirling, but with what, Richie can’t even venture to guess. But, after a beat, Eddie nods. 

“I hear this shit takes time.” Richie goes on, cliche as it is. “And in the meantime, you’ve got a get-out-of-jail-free card to be as cranky as you want.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes and Richie, for his part, finds himself thankful that he can finally identify the emotion shining in his friend’s face. “I’m not being  _ cranky,  _ you were being an asshole!” 

“Sounds pretty cranky to me,” Richie murmurs, grin wide.  _ Found you.  _


	11. Chapter 11

In the morning, Eddie comes to the door with his toothbrush in his cheek. Richie lifts a finger to gesture to Eddie’s face, where frothy toothpaste spittle gathers at the juncture of his lip. “Cute.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes and waves Richie inside. He immediately hangs a left as he walks inside. Richie adjusts Little B in the crook of his arm and steps his way through the threshold. It’s a small place, though maybe it’s big for New York, Richie can’t tell. It’s mostly one big room: a kitchenette, a small dining table, a corner with all the living room classics - a couch, coffee table, TV perched on a half bookshelf. To the left, two doors. One is open, and he can see Eddie leaning forward to spit into the bathroom sink. The other is closed, but Richie can assume there’s a bed, a dresser, and a nightstand behind them. 

He places Little B on the floor, and she immediately busies herself with sniffing around. She heads right for the shoes paired up by the door, at least till Richie hisses, “ _ Hey. Leave it!”  _

She sniffs more.

“Down!” 

And, she lies down, sad nose pointed to the ground. 

“She’s actually pretty well trained,” Eddie says, leaning on the doorframe of the bathroom. His arms are crossed at his chest. 

“ _ Actually?”  _ Richie lets his jaw drop, covers his heart with a hand. When Eddie simply quirks a brow, Richie relents. “Yeah, she knew this shit when I got her.” 

“I knew it.” 

Changing the subject, Richie throws his messenger bag off his shoulder. “So, here’s her shit. Toys, bowls, all that crap. Where do you want her bowls to go?” 

Eddie shrugs. “Kitchen?” 

“What kitchen?” 

“Fuck off.” 

Richie, nevertheless, places her little silver bowls in front of the window in the little corner that’s posing as a kitchenette. He puts some water in the dish, and - much to Little B’s interest - puts down her breakfast portion of kibble. As he does, he talks. “So, Eds. You can just ignore her if you want. She shouldn’t be an issue.” 

“If she costs me my security deposit, you’re in trouble,” Eddie says, deadpan as anything. 

While Richie understands that  _ technically  _ he’s joking, he also understands that if she so much as pisses on the floor he’ll never hear the end of it. If only there were a way to make a dog stay on her best behavior. Without constant supervision, that is. 

He nods, though. “Yeah. Um. Thanks, man. Y’know. For the help.” 

Eddie waves it off. 

And here, Richie stands. He’s got to get to the music hall soon. It’s about an hour on the subway, and if he’s late for soundcheck Steve will never let him live it down. 

But, before he goes, he turns back to Eddie. 

“Hey. I don’t know why I didn’t ask before, but are you coming tonight?” 

“I...I was  _ thinking  _ about it.” He’s not sure why Eddie looks so surprised, entire face fucking slack. 

“I know you don’t really like my shit, but I can get Steve to arrange a backstage pass for you. You can just hang out in the back if you want. They have those little fuckin’ mini liquor bottles. So, for you, they’re just regular bottles.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “I’m not that fucking short. I’m taller than Bill and you never give  _ him  _ this fucking shit.” 

Richie has to make a concerted effort to pull the corners of his lips down. “Do you want a backstage pass, yea or nay?” 

“Will I have to laugh at your jokes?” 

Richie bites back a laugh. “I’d be shocked if you did.” 

That, ironically enough, does pull a laugh from him. It’s soft and in his chest, but there nonetheless. And he nods. “Sure, I’ll come.” 

Richie can’t wipe the smile off his face. “I’ll come and get you at six, then?” 

“At six.” 

Richie waves goodbye to Little B, who has already made herself at home, curling up onto the rug in the “living room,” barely even noticing he’s gone. In the hallway, he has to choke back the grin, the tiniest feeling hidden in there, of something that seemed a hell of a lot like satisfaction. 

* * *

Everyone at Radio City Music Hall is a fucking goddamn professional. The microphones work immediately on the first try. They go through the script, blocking, and cues, and it only takes a couple of hours. The lighting tech gets a quick rundown of the blocking, scribbling things down on her paper. And the actual rehearsal, the actual tech, goes by smooth as silk.

Richie, for his part, stumbles on a joke or two, but figures it out without Steve having to prompt him. Usually, it’d be something resembling a victory, but now, in this new context, all it does is make him feel super inadequate. 

But, it doesn’t matter. Afternoon’s hit, and they’ve run it twice, and it’s time for the techies to get lunch. The assistant building manager takes it from there, mapping out the backstage maze for Richie and Steve, showing them exactly where to go for tonight. 

Richie’s shown the doors to come in and where to park, building protocols and all that shit. The technical protocols for allowing Little B in, even though the Hall’s official policy is service dogs only. Richie’s got the fucking nicest dressing room he’s ever set foot in. The vanity trifold extends out, and is perforated with lights. There’s a fucking suede couch and a coffee table. And he thinks he hears the manager ask Steve what kind of fucking snacks should be there. 

He walks in a slow circle, hands buried in his pockets, around this huge dressing room, rubbing his chin and taking steps to avoid looking at his own reflection. 

Richie’s been doing standup for half his life. This isn’t the first time he’s played a big venue. It’s a bit fancier, but he’s performed in front of full houses and on TV and all that shit. This doesn’t feel like a big step, career-wise. And, because of that, he can’t figure out why his fucking stomach won’t settle, or why he’s so jumpy. 

He doesn’t have much time to worry about it, though, because Steve’s pulling him into a coffee shop to talk logistics, eyes already on the next thing they’ve contracted. 

And, so it goes. 

He pulls out his phone and snaps a photograph of the empty dressing room. Maybe he should wait till he has something in here? But, that just seems like too much effort. 

Opening Twitter, for the first time in probably longer than he should’ve, he attaches the photograph. 

> Tweet by  _ @trashmouthtozier: gonna be a fucking great show tonight everyone!  _

* * *

5:30 pm, and Richie knocks at Eddie’s door again. Down the hall, some family’s having a loud argument in something that sounds like Italian, and he can hear the deadbolt unclick from Eddie’s place just before the door swings open. Eddie waves him in, and walks back to the couch. Little B’s perched on her hind legs, paws up on the back of the couch. She barks -- happily, Richie thinks -- to greet him and immediately flops back onto Eddie’s lap.

And Eddie’s scratching her ears and rubbing the thick layer of fur on her belly. The fucking smile on his face is wide and - honestly - smitten. Much as he likes the look on Eddie’s face, it almost seems voyeuristic to watch him like this, without walls. 

“You’re letting her on the couch?” Richie says, by way of reminding Eddie that he’s in the room. 

“Hm?” Eddie spins around. Decades of frown lines make themselves apparent on his face. “Don’t you let her up on your furniture?” 

“ _ I  _ do.” Richie nods. “I’m just surprised  _ you  _ did. Poms shed, dude. All that fucking dander’s getting onto your couch. In the air. Up your nose and shit.” 

“Shut up,” Eddie’s hand returns to Little B’s scruff. He’s scratching her behind the ears, affectionate smile, entirely without any of the usual frustration or annoyance that fronts in his expression. “I have a DustBuster, anyway.” 

“Of course you do.” What else can Richie do or say? He laughs. 

* * *

They take Eddie’s Escalade to Radio City, so they don’t have to work through the subway system or buses. However, because the drive from Queens to Manhattan is so busy this time of day, they still leave with a full hour to kill. Eddie won’t let Little B sit on Richie’s lap in shotgun, and she only tries to hop up a couple times, ultimately giving up when the car’s movement becomes too inconsistent for her to plan any grand escapes from the backseat. 

Eddie’s so funny, behind the wheel. Unlike his cool composure on Derry’s empty streets, he’s switching lanes every two seconds. Cursing out cabs and other drivers. 

And - nevertheless - despite the boiling road rage, he spins the wheel with such fucking  _ confidence _ . Like he knows exactly what spaces his car can fit between, how many lanes over he can get before there’d be a problem. He’s speeding and the car definitely lurches when he gets too close to the people in front of him. But, Eddie knows what the fuck he’s doing, enough to yell out the window: “IT’S CALLED FLOW OF TRAFFIC, DICKWAD, EVER HEARD OF IT?” 

Richie can’t help it. He laughs. 

“So, driving in New York seems  _ great _ for your blood pressure.” 

“Fuck off.” Eddie flips him the bird, barely taking his eyes off the road. Another driver cuts him off, dipping in ahead of him in the lane far too close for comfort. Eddie lays on the horn. Hard. “AND FUCK YOU IN THE WHITE SEDAN!” 

Richie can’t think of a single time he’s liked Eddie more than at this very moment. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Head's up: this chapter contains the f-slur.**

They get to Radio City Music Hall and everything’s in full swing. Richie checks in with Steve and with the stage manager. Naturally, there were no last-minute technical difficulties that popped up in the last few hours. 

It seems like it’s going to be fucking smooth sailing. 

The stage manager gestures to Eddie, where he stands beside Richie. He extends a hand to Eds, and, as he’s shaking it, asks, “I don’t think we’ve met. You are?” 

“Eddie Kaspbrak.” Eddie introduces himself, leaning over to shake the stage manager’s hand. 

“He’s my plus-one for the evening,” Richie says by way of mediation. Like plus-ones are regular things people get at work. But, he supposes, other performers’ friends and family members must come and watch shows all the time. So, it’s not that weird. Right? 

If nothing else, the stage manager doesn’t seem affected. Instead, all he says is “Unfortunately - or fortunately, depending on how you look at it - we’re sold out so I won’t be able to get you a complimentary ticket in the audience. You’re welcome to stay in the wings, though. There aren’t too many moving parts back here tonight.” 

“That’s fine,” Eddie says. 

To Richie his voice seems all wrapped up or underwater or something. Richie can’t hear the exact words. Holy shit. He sold out Radio City fucking Music Hall. 

And that’s. That’s really fucking daunting. 

And it’s not because he fumbled a couple jokes in rehearsal. And it’s not because he’s a little rusty. It’s not even because a massive swarm of people will - literally - be cramped in shoulder-to-shoulder like fucking sardines, expecting something from him. 

He’s used to that. He’s been doing this rodeo since he was twenty years old. 

But something feels off. Queasy, almost. 

He can’t flip the switch in his head, no matter how hard he tries. He’s in the dressing room, now, staring at Eddie petting Little B on that fancy ass suede couch. Watching the way he’s fucking  _ cooing  _ to her (“That’s a good girl.”). 

He can’t afford a distraction. It’s go time. 

Without warning, shaking off his button-down in favor of a blue blazer, Richie’s caught in a loop. The last few months, seeing everyone. 

He can’t stop himself from seeing Stan in that deli. The hurtful thing that was meant to help. It doesn’t matter. In his head, Stan melts away, and there’s Bill, busy and fucking miserable, caught trying to render endings that’ll please everyone. Mike asking him if he’s tired of this shit yet. There’s Ben, talking to Little B, a statement of fucking resignation_ \--- I guess this is your life now. _Whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean. Bev, too, and the way she said it didn’t have to be.

Though, that’s fucking ridiculous. Because Ben was talking to the fucking dog, and Bev was talking about herself, and if Richie could just get out of his own fucking head for two seconds, maybe he’d stop projecting so damn much. 

But, nevertheless, he catches Eddie in the vanity mirror. Still petting the dog, and smiling at her. One end of his collar is turned up, and Richie can’t help but notice his arms moving as he slinks his jacket off. 

There’s not too much time to unpack that. There’s an abrupt knock at the door and, a second more, and Steve pokes his head in. He’s put on more hair gel in the past two minutes. Richie’s pretty sure he could knock on it. Steve clears his throat. “Opener’s almost on. You ready?” 

Ready is relative, but Richie is definitely prepared to walk onstage. To let muscle memory and the warmth of the spotlight take away the crazy mind-meld he’s found himself in. And so, he nods, walks towards the door. In his periphery, he sees Eddie place Little B off his lap and follow. 

Steve stops Richie at the door. Both hands on his shoulders, he smooths out the wrinkles in his shirt and blazer. Richie’s ears don’t normally get hot like this, but he hears Eddie behind him, making a little humming sound. 

“You good, Rich?” Steve asks. The way he always does. “Need any water or anything?” 

“Bourbon,” Richie says, thinking it might calm his fucking mind for two seconds. 

“You got it,” Steve yells it off to some twentysomething in a headset, and puts his hand on Richie’s back. “And we’re walking. We’re walking a little faster…” 

Fucking narrating until they get to the wings. 

` And now, he’s standing in the wings.

Now, nobody’s behind him. Curtains create a pathway from comfortable darkness into blinding light. 

Here it is. His first set with the new shit. His first new set in a while. There’s always an extra gravity, a sense of unknown, in the new stuff. And, while he can’t do much about whether or not the material is any good, it still reflects on him. 

It’s a helpless, flailing sort of feeling. 

But, he can’t afford to think about it. It’s literally his job to  _ make  _ it funny. That’s why the writers don’t do their own shit. They’ve got the jokes. He’s got the delivery. And that’s the symbiosis in which they live. And it’s fine. 

It should be, at least. It needs to be. 

Time to put it all away; it’s time to do what he does best. Entertain people. 

The alcohol comes crazy fast, and, next thing Richie knows, he’s standing in the wings. 

He can’t figure out his own directions. Up or down, left or right. Like someone’s put a magnet up to his internal compass, the needle just spins. 

Richie shoots back the bourbon, it burns down his throat. Handing the glass to Steve **, ** he knows how to do this. It’s familiar and he knows, in his muscles, what he needs to do. The booming announcer crashes over the crowd and into the backstage echo chamber. 

“ _ Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Richie Tozier!”  _

And Richie hears it, and he’s already walking on stage, hand extended to wave to the crowd. To thank them for coming, for clapping, for spending their money here, for trusting they’ll be entertained. All that bullshit. 

Usually, he’s here for this. Usually, it’s a challenge and he’s happy to rise to the occasion. But he can fucking feel his heart pounding out of his chest like a fucking cartoon character. He hasn’t had this much of a reaction in a decade. And they depend on him not to. 

He’s gotta try. 

It’s time to tell some fucking jokes. 

He approaches the microphone, waving until the applause winds down. The spotlight crashes into his corneas. He’s blinking like an idiot. And sweating. 

God. Why’s he so sweaty? Spotlights aren’t  _ that  _ hot. 

“All right! How are we doing tonight?” Richie says into the microphone. “So, this is usually the part where I’m supposed to thank you all for coming out but…” He shrugs, continues: “Your tickets are  _ not  _ refundable and I already bought a jet ski.” 

There’s a tremor of a laugh through the audience. 

“And, I know everyone  _ thinks  _ that nobody actually  _ needs _ a jet ski. But, after the month I’ve had, it’s a fucking necessity.” He pauses, going by rote with the script. He’d rehearsed this bit so many fucking times. “See, what happened was, my girlfriend caught me masturbating to her friend’s Facebook page.” 

There’s a pause here - built-in - to let the audience laugh. Which - invariably - they do. 

He goes on. The burn from the whiskey still smarting at the intake of air. “And so now I’m in Masturbators Anonymous.” Pause. Laughter. Continue: “And at my first meeting, I stood up and I said, ‘My name is Richie ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier…” 

The cat’s got his tongue. He stops. Echoes of ‘ _ Shut up, Trashmouth,’  _ and ‘ _ Nice going’  _ blur. 

_ At some point, you can’t keep doing this to yourself.  _

_ Make an effort to be predictable.  _

Oh, fuck. Richie’s still on stage. The spotlights make him squint. He stammers. “Um. Trashmouth…” 

_ Don’t you ever get tired of pretending?  _ The feeling of, not just being looked at, but being seen. The bulwark he’s kept on leaning on, but ignoring. 

Where was he? 

Oh yeah.  _ My name is Richie ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier… _

But-- fuck -- what comes next? 

Under his breath, he murmurs, “I forgot the joke.” 

It escaped before he could stop it. 

From the back, some heckler calls out, “You suck!” and Richie doesn’t know if it’s that, or the combination of everything but 

He’s fucking done. He’s so fucking done. 

And Richie’s chuckling and hanging his head. The audience is silent. Richie has an entire set, ready, memorized and rehearsed. And everyone’s waiting for the guy who makes their evenings brighter. Who reaffirms the sweet catch-release of schadenfreude whenever he speaks. Everyone’s waiting for the reaffirmation of who Richie, the Comedian, is. 

Everyone. Including Steve. His publicist. The people whose patronage Richie depends upon for any kind of reliable income. Maybe even Eddie, too. 

_ Don’t you ever get tired?  _

And, yeah. He gets tired. All the time. He’s tired right fucking now. 

“Fuck it.” Maybe he said it out loud, maybe not. He’s not paying that much attention. Seizing the microphone, Richie abandons his place at the stand. He walks forward. The mic is wireless, so he doesn’t have to worry about tripping. But, there he stands. At the edge of the stage. Mentally taking every script he’s ever memorized and tearing it to shreds. He’s straight as a board and his stomach sloshes around. But, he can’t think about it too much. Or else he’ll lose his nerve. And his dinner.

Standing before the audience, Richie looks back up into the light. Gnaws at his lip and, once the whispers have died down, goes again: “I grew up in the 1980s. And, I’m sure some of the younger chucklefucks in this room are thinking ‘ _ Oh awesome.’  _ Big hair. I could talk about pissing all over Ruskies and nobody realized it was some kind of deep fucked-up, overly-specific kink.” 

There’s a small murmur of laughter, light -- as though it’s unsure of itself. They’re waiting for a punchline. Thing is, Richie doesn’t have one. He’s just a dude with a microphone, blazing forward -- completely off-script. 

He’s looking at the ground. “But, hell no. That’s not the 80s I grew up in. I didn’t have an alien fucking crash land in my back yard. Or an old dude who taught me how to time travel. I grew up in  _ Maine. _ ” 

There might have been one or two laughs, but overall - still that suspended  _ wait.  _

“Oh, so only a few of you have ever been to Maine. Checks out. Anyway. This town I grew up in was fucking  _ microscopic _ . We’re talking so fucking tiny, that one summer the big activity for me and my friends was to map out the entire fucking sewer system. And, yeah, there’s a sort of nostalgic charm to splashing around in shitty water. But then there’s the shit that you drink to forget. Like the nostalgic charm to splashing around in shitty water.” 

And, for whatever it’s worth, Richie’s glad that it’s not enough of a shift that people are walking out. Or throwing rotten tomatoes or anything. Maybe someone’s even laughing. “But, you know. Scrunchies are great. I’m glad they’re making a comeback.” 

From the corner of his eye, he sees Eddie, arms crossed and staring. Beside him, Steve’s swinging his arms in big gestures - asking him what the hell he’s doing. _Begging_ him to get back on script. That this wasn’t planned and…

Well, if Richie stops now, he’s never gonna have the cojones to do it again. So, he blocks him out. Turns back to the audience. Says, “And kids today don’t get that experience. They don’t get to just splash around in shitty water. There’s Netflix and shit now. Hell, sometimes they don’t even have to come o--” 

Richie can feel his stomach lurch. The burn in his throat isn’t the memory of whiskey, it’s bile. His own lunch. He doesn’t even know where he’s going with this, but he’s left without much of an option, other than to stop. To  _ abort _ . Change the subject.  _ Now.  _

“Well. They don’t worry about the same shit. They just talk to strangers on the Internet and not worry about getting kidnapped in the middle of the night. Like, fuck, I’m forty-years-old and I go on Tinder for two seconds and next thing I know I’m calling ADT. Nobody’s gonna put me on a milk carton. Heineken, maybe. But that’s..if you have to go on a Heineken box, you’re already fucking doomed.” 

Richie’s lips press together. He looks down at his microphone. What the fuck is he doing? What is he  _ saying?  _ But, because he’s already in the thick of it, he goes on. He can’t turn off his goddamn mouth.

“But, I don’t mean to shit on everyone’s favorite nostalgic phallus. I’m sure there’s other stuff there that was great. The 80s were great. Maybe your life was  _ Ferris Buller _ . Mine was _ Teen Wolf.”  _

There’s a laugh. But Richie doesn’t pause, or wait. He’s already onto the next thing - the thing pressing into his brain, and it doesn’t give him the opportunity to let up. 

“Yeah.  _ Teen Wolf.  _ But without any of the fun basketball shit. It was just an endless ten-year loop of ‘I’m not a fag, I’m a werewolf.’” 

Richie can hear his heart pound in his ears. It’s like he’s underwater. Is anybody laughing? He can’t tell. 

Switching his mic-hand, Richie wipes a palm on his jeans. “To this day I wonder how the writers of that movie got their hands on my diary.” 

It’s quiet. So quiet. 

Richie scratches the back of his neck. “It was...it was fucking  _ surreal,  _ to be a kid back then. You relied so much on your friends because - fuck - nobody else cared. And, even then, this feeling of...fear, was around. You’d be with your friends and you couldn’t actually talk. That shit’s….shit’s gay.” 

A pin drops. Richie’s sure of it. 

Next thing he knows, he’s spinning on his heels. Jogging off stage, past Steve, the building manager **, ** and everyone else trying to get to him.  _ _ Eddie’s put himself in Richie’s path, already opened his mouth, asking  _ something,  _ but Richie just keeps running. He needs to be alone. Just for a second. 


	13. Chapter 13

Richie can’t actually be alone, though, for one fucking moment. Steve’s on his heels, like some kind of greaser-border-collie, barking out, “What the hell, Rich? Where do you think you’re going?” 

There aren’t too many places to turn, and all he can do is up his pace. Get to whatever destination he can think of. Drown Steve out. 

Steve, at his ankles, who won’t be deterred. “Are you about to faint or something? Are you sick? Because you still have thirty-five minutes more booked. You can’t just cut it short for no reason--are you even  _ listening?”  _

As soon as he gets to his dressing room, Richie tries to shut the door in his face before he can slide in. But, of course, Steve pushes his way through. Half a second later, Eddie slips through the door. 

Because of course Eddie followed, for this. Who’d ever wanna miss a show? 

Richie sinks on the couch. Might as well resign himself. 

Steve’s still going off. “You signed a frickin’ contract, man. We’re at Radio City frickin’ Music Hall. You can’t just  _ walk out  _ in the middle of a set! Never-mind that you just threw everyone who works for you under a bus, but you’re not even on stage right now! And -- what the hell was that? You need to get back up there and get back on script. That shit wasn’t green-lit--” 

“What do you want me to say, Steve?” Richie finally manages to choke out, mind swarming too much. He’s kind of amazed he managed to string together a sentence. 

“Say? What we had planned. Preferably on the stage in front of the mic!” 

Richie’s mouth flies open, to come up with some kind of retort, but Eddie’s stepped forward. He swats the back of his hand on Steve’s shoulder, and once eyes are on him, says, “Give us a minute.” 

“We don’t  _ have  _ a minute, we’re already on damage control--” 

“Then do your job and control the damage! Give us a fucking minute.” 

Steve’s jaw fucking drops. All Richie can do is shrug and say, “You heard the man.” 

“ _ Fine.  _ I’ll go make something up to the venue.” 

Steve huffs his way out the door, and, arms tight across his chest, Eddie takes half a step forward. Richie holds his breath. Waiting for, whatever this is. Not sure what to do. 

What the fuck did he just do? Why did he  _ say  _ all that? Why does it feel like everything’s crashing? 

Eddie sighs, after a beat. And Richie watches him stomp over to the door. He shuts it firm, and twists the deadbolt. Richie hears the lock slide into place, loud. 

He gives a halfhearted laugh. “You gonna murder me or something, Eds?” 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “It’s in case he decides to barge in.” 

“Smart,” Richie says, even though he isn’t entirely sure why. 

And then, Eddie’s approaching. He’s frowning, but - for some reason - he doesn’t sound angry when he asks, “What the hell, Richie?” 

“What?” There’s no point in playing dumb, but it’s out of Richie’s mouth before he can stop it. He grabs a handful of buttermints from the coffee table. Looks down at Little B, snoozing on a pillow, instead of up at Eddie. 

“ _ Teen Wolf?”  _

And now, well, Richie has to look at him. It’s like a magnet. His eyes just drift up. And there he is. Staring, hard, and frowning. Like he’s trying to understand something. 

“My set,” Richie spins in the chair. He leans forward and collects a handful of buttermints from the bowl on the coffee table. “I know it’s not really your taste but I didn’t think you’d be  _ that  _ made about it.” 

“No. Don’t you fucking dare. I’ve seen your shit and this wasn’t that. And I know that wasn’t your new shit either because fucking  _ Steve  _ was standing there looking like you fucking murdered him. And meanwhile you were up there with the fucking microphone saying---I...I don’t even know what you were trying to say!” Eddie glowers and, finally, punctuates his statements as he throws his ass onto the couch, perched. Like he’s about to spring. Locked and loaded. “I mean...fucking hell, Richie.  _ Teen Wolf?”  _

Richie ignores the feeling of spikes skewering his chest. Ignores the feeling of all the warm colors fading out of the world. Instead, he chews on the mints, and scratches the back of his head. Instead, he says, “ _ Relax,  _ buddy _ .  _ It was a joke.” 

Eddie’s jaw tightens. Richie can see the vein popping in his forehead.  “ Do you ever even listen to anything that comes out of your own fucking mouth? Do you know what it sounded like you were sying?”

When Eddie’s seemed to run out of steam, Richie feels cold. Fuck this. Why can’t he just  _ say _ it? Explain how he’d just had e-fucking-nough and he was just... _ trying.  _ He’d opened up the door, just to slam it right back in his face. He can’t stop himself as he asks, “Why do you care so much?” 

“Because.” 

“Because?” 

“ _ Richie.”  _

And Eddie’s glower is so persistent, so maddeningly severe, that Richie relents. He leans back in the vanity chair, almost falling off as it dips. Its wheels swivel away from the table. He sighs. “I was just...trying something. See if I could.” 

Eddie’s glare turns to confusion. He’s rotating his jaw, subtly, barely moving. Richie can hear his own heart beating in his ears. Why can’t he just be fucking  _ calm?  _ He can’t look Eddie in the eye anymore, and so he stares -- hard -- at his hands. At all the hairs and scars that live there. At the things he can see every day without them changing too much. 

What d’you mean?” Eddie’s voice, at this moment, is softer than it’d been all night. Almost a whisper. It hurts. Richie can feel Eddie’s eyes on him, and it feels like hands on him. So many goddamn hands. 

Richie rubs his tongue along the inside of his cheek. “I don’t write my material. I thought...maybe I could improvise.” 

He’s finally mustered up the courage to look Eddie in the eye. His brows are furrowed, his mouth is tight in a frown, and Richie can’t even begin to guess what’s swarming around in his head. 

“And the shit that comes to mind is Marty Mc-fucking-Fly?” 

“Scott Howard.” 

“What?” 

“The character’s name. It’s Scott, not Marty.” 

“ _ Richie.  _ That is not even remotely important right now."

“So what is? I tried something and it didn’t land. In front of hundreds of people, might I add. It happens. Why are you so angry?” 

“I’m not fucking angry, dickwad.” 

“Relax, Eddie.” Richie continues: “I mean. It’s obviously a joke, right? I’m not a goddamn werewolf.” 

“What?” Eddie’s voice, at this moment, is softer than it’d been all night. Almost a whisper. It hurts. Richie can feel Eddie’s eyes on him, and it feels like hands on him. So many goddamn hands. 

Richie rubs his tongue along the inside of his cheek. All he can do is repeat. “I’m not a werewolf.” 

He’s finally mustered up the courage to look Eddie in the eye. His brows are furrowed, his mouth is tight in a frown, and Richie can’t even begin to guess what’s swarming around in his head. 

Fuck this. Why can’t he just  _ say _ it? 

“And the...other part?” 

Oh. There it is. Eddie’s said it for him. And he’s not sure if that’s better or worse. 

Richie blows out, long and slow, as though there’s smoke there, but the breath alone can’t calm him. And he means to answer, but what he ends up saying is “Eddie.” 

His voice is all small and sad and his brainpower’s flatlining. He’s trying to think of something - anything else - to say. And he’s coming up blank. 

And that’s all she wrote. That’s it. Twenty-seven fucking years just down the drain. Spiraling and circling and falling beyond his reach. Eddie knows. It’s only a matter of time before he stops to think about it and it ruins everything. 

Eddie stops. He swallows. Richie can feel his stomach slosh around. He needs to locate the nearest trash can as soon as humanly possible. Before Richie can barf up his guts, however, Eddie’s talking. Slower than normal, like he’s trying to figure something out.

Finally, he says, “And you wouldn’t tell us because… ‘that shit’s gay.’” 

“Literally.” 

And Richie doesn’t know what’s fucking happening, because Eddie’s hanging his head. And now he’s laughing. And, even though Richie’s made his career from this shit, he isn’t exactly thrilled about not being in on the joke. 

“The hell, man?” 

Eddie’s still shaking his head. Some kind of small smile on his face. “Isn’t that the  _ point,  _ dipshit?” 

“Hey--” Richie opens his mouth to protest, say something to cover up the burning that’s happening in his eyes. At the same time, Eddie grabs onto his hand. He pulls Richie forward, swiveling on the vanity stool until he bumps into the edge of the couch. 

There’s a palm on the back of his neck. Fingers in his hair. 

Eddie’s palm. Eddie’s fingers. 

Eddie’s lips on his. 

It’s so fast, Richie can hardly process it all. But, at the moment he’s grabbed his bearings, he’s also flung himself off the swiveling chair. His knees bracket either side of Eddie’s hips. He’s pressed up to him. 

Eddie’s mouth is colliding into his, warm and wet and all-encompassing. Richie’s hands swing around his neck, squeeze his shoulders, find those expanses of his body and maps it out with his hands. 

He’s thought about this - a lot - over the years. Fantasized. Daydreamed. The whole nine yards. Nothing about any of that shit was enough to prepare him for the fucking overdrive - the way his heart pounded, the heat and tightness starting to flare up under his stomach. 

Eddie’s nails scrape, gently, on the slope of his jawline, against the grain of the stubble and Richie can feel Eddie’s lips pull into a smile under him. 

“You okay, Eddie?” Richie breathes. Finally able to turn sounds into syllables and words. Richie flicks his tongue in the synapse between Eddie’s lips, fast and barely touching. In a way, it’s a question. 

And, on contact, Eddie lets off this amazing little grunt. His breathing’s all erratic, labored, and he manages to nod, barely lifting his face away from Richie’s. “Yeah.” 

Fuck. Richie doesn’t know how long this will last. If he’s going to wake up. 

And so, when Eddie’s hands move to tug at the back of his blazer, Richie lets it fall onto the carpet behind him. 

And his hands spread, on the small of Richie’s back, under his shirt. 

It’d be selfish for Richie to not return the favor. 

His hands travel down, over clothes, but he can feel how hot Eddie’s skin is through fabric. He leans down, closer, and their hip bones stutter against one another. He can feel Eddie’s semi against his upper thigh. 

And - fuck - 

Richie's watched his fair share of porn in his day, but that's got to be the hottest thing he's ever seen. Definitely the hottest thing he's ever felt. 

It might not be the best time, but Richie can’t help it when a small breath escapes - something like a laugh. 

Between kisses, between roaming movements of hands, Eddie “ _ Hms?”  _ by way of asking. 

“Remember being a teenager, and getting, like, rock hard from a cold breeze, or---” 

As Richie talks, Eddie’s moved to his neck. His lips feel so fucking good, and it’s hard to concentrate. 

Richie fucking hates the pathetic  _ Oof  _ that tumbles out of his mouth. But the shudder running down his spine makes his toes curl. That much, he can get behind. 

“--or something.” Richie finishes, haphazard and feeling only a little pathetic. 

Eddie stops on his neck, kisses his pulse, and then he scoffs and says, “You would’ve already come by now.” 

“Shit. I just might.” 

“Shut up,” Eddie laughs. His hands come up to Richie’s shoulders. Richie isn’t sure what’s happening, except one moment Eddie’s hands are on his shoulders and the next Richie’s flat on his back. His glasses fall somewhere on the ground, and Eddie’s knee presses between his thighs. 

“Fuck, Eddie--” Richie murmurs, voice reverberating against Eddie’s mouth. It’s a fucking cacophony of strangled sounds littering from Richie’s mouth. But he can’t fucking care. Eddie’s stable and lying on top of him and his hot weight presses down. He curls a leg around Eddie’s back, leans in as Eddie fucking bites his lip. And his headspace is nothing but want and drive and this clingy fucking need to  _ feel _ Eddie. To feel all the ways Eddie wants him.

Holy shit.

Eddie  _ wants _ him. Like, sexually and shit.

Eddie wants him. Period. 

Richie is overwhelmed. Hazy and spinning. It feels like no amount of contact could sate the dizziness. What comes flying out of his mouth next shouldn’t surprise him but --

“Shit, man. Fuck me sideways, why don’t ya?” 

\-- And, yeah, maybe it's not the most forthcoming thing in the world. But it still sounds  _ bizarre _ coming from his mouth. Fucking surreal. Like he never thought he’d ever get this far. 

“You seriously calling me ' _ man'  _ right now?” 

Richie can’t see for shit. But he can tell that Eddie’s cheeks are flushed, his mouth is wet and swollen. No matter what he’s  _ saying _ , he’s smiling. That much is undeniable. Eddie hitches his leg a little higher on his waist. Richie, for his part, is fucking vibrating. And Eddie’s leaning in, mouth sliding up his jawline, kissing to his ear and 

“Son of a bitch!” 

Eddie flies backward, sitting back on the couch, holding his hand in front of him. “Goddamn it!” 

_ Shit.  _ Mayday. Man down. 

Richie’s stomach sinks. 

“Eddie? What’s wrong?” Richie scrambles up onto his elbows. 

With his free hand, Eddie gestures down to the ground. Richie blinks and, in the vague general haze of the room, sees a blurry golden mop of fluff, sitting expectantly by the side of the couch, tail beating the carpet. 

“She fucking  _ licked _ me,” Eddie says, staring at his hand. He swallows. “That’s disgusting.” 

Richie pats Little B on his way to reach for his glasses. He slides them on his face quickly, and the room pulls into focus.

And now he can get a good look at Eddie. His shirt’s all rumpled up and there’s not a single hair in place. It’s the kind of image Richie used to fantasize about, but just an arm’s length away. 

Here he is, screwed to the spot. He can’t even sit up. 

Shit. Fuck. 

To compensate for how heavy his limbs feel, he smiles. “That was the most successful cockblock I’ve ever witnessed.” 

The laughter doesn’t even start small. The second the concern dissolves, Richie’s shoulders are practically quivering. Eddie’s shaking his head and leaning on the back of the couch, and Richie’s not at all exaggerating when he thinks that he can feel him, warm, present, clear, across the couch. 

He’s got a smile that could bring back the dead. A laugh that could turn anybody’s day around. 

And they’re laughing on and on, and the comfort of their laughter gives Richie the wherewithal to reach out. He brushes Eddie’s fingertips with his own. They’re damp with dog slobber, but only a little. 

And, slowly, it all dissipates. Their chests stop heaving and their breath returns to normal. 

The second silence seeps back into their space is the second Richie’s coughing into his fist. He’s suddenly aware that he can hear the echo of footsteps from the hall. The incandescence makes all the light seem harsh. He hadn’t noticed. 

Hadn’t noticed much of anything at all, it seems. 

“Well...” Richie scratches at his head, trying to pat his hair back down. “That was fun.” 

“I mean, that’s why we did it,” Eddie says, gnawing on the side of his mouth. His hands twitch by his knees, like he’s all of a sudden not sure what to do with them. “But. Yeah, it was.” 

But, now that Richie thinks about it, everything seems so unsure now. One second everything’d been spinning off its fucking axis. And one decision had led to another, and another, and another and then, Eddie found him out. Eddie had looked right through him and saw the one thing Richie couldn’t - fucking  _ can’t _ \- bring himself to say. And then...Eddie kissed him. He touched him. 

And, Richie doesn’t want to be greedy, and that’s not really what he hopes is coming off when he looks from the left to the right, and can’t stop the question from bubbling up. “Do you wanna do it again?” 


	14. Chapter 14

Richie steps out of the dressing room, and Steve’s on him in half a second, and pulling him back towards the stage. The speed is, actually, pretty fucking impressive.

“Have you pulled yourself back together, Rich? The opener’s back on and he’s  _ bombing,  _ but if you can give us a tight fifteen--where’s your jacket?” Steve crinkles his brows and immediately thinks better of the question. “Nevermind. Just get back out there.” 

Richie’s trying to keep up, baffled. “People are still here?” 

“Not for much longer if you don’t get on that.” Steve stops him in the wings, making a big gesture to the opener, who’s wobbling against the mic stand. And then, turns back to Richie. “Okay. Listen to me, Rich. Are you listening?” 

“ _ Yes _ .” 

“Just get out there. Give us a tight fifteen - anything  _ from the script.  _ And everyone still here gets a free pin from the merch table for half off a t-shirt.” 

“Okay,” Richie mumbles, as the opener finishes off his set. His heart is beating again. He didn’t want to jump back out so soon. With no time to process any of this. 

“And don’t fuck that up,” Steve adds. “Because everybody’s discount comes off  _ your  _ check.” 

“Yeah. I deserve that.” 

“I know. Ready?” 

He isn’t. But Eddie comes running up, with his blazer in hand and he touches Richie’s arm as Richie’s sliding it back on. 

Richie still isn’t ready. But, maybe, just maybe, he isn’t so alone in this. 

Walking on, like he’s on his way to pick up his water bottle, Richie tries to act nonchalant when he sees the cloud of bodies still in their seats. There’s quite a few less people than earlier - and he can’t blame them - but still. There are more people than not. Their heads are all vague shadowy blobs. Hundreds of eyes, still staring at him. 

Whatever damage control Steve had done, it fucking  _ worked.  _

Getting back to the mic, Richie clears his throat. And, going with the first thing that comes to mind, he says, “So. I don’t think unplanned and unannounced intermissions are going to catch on any time soon.” 

He thinks he can hear someone cough. And, maybe any sign of life is better than nothing. 

But, nevertheless, he presses on. He’s not going to address anything that came before. Not right now. Not until he’s got the chance to think it over. 

“I think the music hall is gonna put me in time-out after this. I’m so deep in the dog house, I’m might kick  _ myself  _ out of bed.” And, slowly, it seems like the room’s going to warm up. He doesn’t want to swallow his pride in front of hundreds of anonymous people. And yet. “And. That was pretty shitty of me. Definitely the most unprofessional thing I’ve ever done. And I get stoned with my manager on a semi-regular basis, so it’s a fucking doozy.” 

It’s a good segue. His writers had drafted him this whole bit about weed and munchies and it’s funny enough. It gets a few chuckles out of the crowd. Even though Richie can feel the irritation radiating up at him. He’s glad they don’t sell produce. He’d be covered in rotten tomatoes for sure. 

And, it feels weird, repeating back these scripted jokes. It sounds so different than everything else he’s done tonight. It’s foreign and unattached and, it’s rote. He knows his delivery, the moments they’ve practiced. And, he guesses, people are at least partly satisfied.

In the end, when he tells the crowd about the merch deals as his penance, he gets some applause, at least. 

For a second, Richie thinks that maybe it’s done. Maybe he can put it all to the side, and maybe it won’t be a big deal? Sure. He went off script and maybe-kind-of-sort-of got a little  _ too  _ honest. 

But maybe nobody noticed - maybe they just got caught up in the rambling and maybe running off like a fucking baby would distract them? 

And. Besides. Eddie kissed him. And Richie doesn’t want to admit this shit, even to himself, but - if Eddie wants him back (and he does - he actually does), maybe it’ll come easier - admitting that he’s loved Eddie for as long as he can remember. 

Maybe he could even…

Richie’s hands go clammy, and he isn’t even on stage anymore. 

No. 

Not yet. 

Richie makes it off stage, speeding directly to Eddie, and Steve’s rambling into a phone, fast and loud, tucked into a corner and the workers stare, pointed gazes and eyes and Richie can’t help the way he shifts his weight. 

“He’s gonna keep you here all night doing damage control if you let him,” Eddie ticks his head to Steve in the back. “Do you wanna get the dog and go?” 

Richie says “Yes” so fast he can’t quite make meaning from it. Maybe it’s irresponsible, but it wouldn’t be the first time that night. 

* * *

It’s ten o’clock and Richie kicks Eddie’s bedroom door shut the second they’re through. It slams in the frame. Richie thinks - or, at least it feels like - the whole apartment shakes with its force. 

(Which is, frankly, fucking awful architecture. Ben would be appalled.) 

But there’s no time to think about that, because Eddie’s got his hands in the air, and half a step away from a complete rant. “Watch the wood, douchebag!” 

“Watch your wood? I can _definitely _do that.”   


“ _ Jesus,  _ Richie.” 

By now, Richie’s in front of Eddie, both hands on either side of his hips. Their toes knock together. From there, in a moment, nothing is pushing forward, Richie’s taking a mental-picture. A picture of Eddie’s face, an imprint of how warm his body is, how fascinating the shapes of him feel, how he wants to memorize all of them. Richie chuckles, only half engaged in the conversation at this point. “I just call ‘em like I see ‘em.”

“Are you gonna be like this the  _ entire _ time?” 

“Probably.” 

Eddie’s on his toes and brings his face in - their noses bump together. Richie’s breath catches, and Eddie speaks. It’s the same thing he’s said a million times before. But, in the new context - in the cool darkness of Eddie’s bedroom, in the anonymous cloud of noise away from everywhere else in this city - it sounds a whole hell of a lot more mesmerizing than it ever has, in all the thousands of times Eddie’s said it, all the thousands of times Richie’s heard it: 

“Shut up, Richie.” 

And, something about this -- about the way Eddie’s mouth fits into his, or the little lean downwards Richie has to close the four inches between them, or the way Eddie shepherds him around the room, walking backward, just knowing - automatically - where everything is. 

Yeah, it’s Eddie’s room and so that makes sense. But Richie doesn’t even know which way’s up. He could be standing on his head for all he knows, Eddie leading him over - all actual inference tells Richie it’s over to the bed, but what does he care?   
As long as Eddie keeps kissing him like this, he won’t care about anything ever again. Eddie’s hands are all over him and he’s mobile and vibrant and leading him around from one place to the next, and Richie’s pulling himself in, champing at the bit to rise to whatever challenge Eddie gives. 

It still doesn’t feel real. He doesn’t want to wake up. 

They fall. Eddie’s mattress is firm and the comforter wrinkles below them. 

There are no realistic ends to the things Richie wants to do. To hold Edde and kiss him and be held and be kissed. And be touched, with those familiar hands and the sounds that spill out of him. 

He’ll ask Eddie what he likes and he’ll do his best to do it, and he’ll promise to bend over backward. 

He’ll go down on him, too. He’ll trail his mouth open from Eddie’s face to his neck, to his chest, his abdomen. And then show him exactly what his trashmouth can do. 

It’s a fucking ballsy thing to say, especially for someone who hasn’t had a dick in his mouth ever his college roommate’s when it was all,  _ We’re just relieving tension  _ and  _ I’m not a queer but a mouth’s a mouth,  _ and Richie spent weeks convincing himself he didn’t enjoy it as much as he had. But this is an entirely new situation and he thinks he can rise to the occasion. 

And he tells Eddie as much. 

Not the part where he hasn’t blown a guy since he was twenty-five, but the rest of it. He’s kissing at Eddie’s jaw, whispering into his ear. “Can I?” 

Eddie’s arcing into him, hand carding through his hair. And then, he tugs. The pinch is enough to draw Richie’s head back, mouth open, a visceral shiver shooting through his tendons as Eddie sucks on his lip. As Eddie breathes, “Well, are you just gonna keep  _ talking  _ about it or what?” 

* * *

Eddie gets up to take a shower, pretty much as soon as they’re done. And if the way he gathered up their clothes and pulled a blanket around his waist hadn’t seemed so  _ completely  _ Eddie, if it didn’t make so much sense, maybe it might’ve stung his pride a little. 

As soon Eddie opens the door, Little B flings herself into the room. She immediately hopping up onto the bed and curls herself up in the crook of Richie’s knees and settles her nose on her paws. 

He figures, maybe, if he’s lucky, they’re in for the night. 

  
  


* * *

They are. Eddie comes into the room, rubbing a towel on his head, and slides under the covers beside him. 

They settle in, with Richie’s back against Eddie’s chest, and Little B splayed over the intertwining of their legs. Eddie kisses his shoulder, and Richie’s glad it’s dark because he’s sure he must look like an idiot from the broadness of his smile. 

* * *

In the morning, when Richie brings Little B in from her morning shit, Eddie’s sitting at the table. He’s got this fucking tiny espresso cup in his hands and his iPad’s lying haphazardly on a placemat in front of him. “Hey,” He says, jingling the keys he’d pulled off the hook in his hand. 

“Hey,” Eddie looks up. 

“Hope you don’t mind, I borrowed your keys to take Little B out.” 

“Well, I definitely rather have you take them than leave my fucking door unlocked.” Eddie sips at his coffee. 

Richie can get the sentiment. Eddie’s building seems safe, but Queens is a crowded place, and even if he thinks it’s a little overkill for a grown man to lock the front door every time he leaves it, he can appreciate precaution. 

“In that case,” Richie says cheerfully, dumping Little B’s kibble into her bowl. He approaches the table, finds himself leaning against the back of Eddie’s chair. “You’re welcome. I’ll steal your keys any time.” 

“Get some coffee.” Eddie rolls his eyes. “Do you know how to run the espresso machine?” 

Of course, Eddie owns a fucking espresso machine. That checks out. Richie laughs. “I can figure it out.” 

“If you say so,” Eddie says. It seems like he’s going to turn back to his iPad, to whatever app he’s on, but he holds there.

And Richie fidgets. Unsure of what comes next. He’s just standing here, in Eddie’s small-ass apartment, Little B hacking down her food, the strong scent of espresso wafting up to Richie’s face and - fuck - what is he supposed to do? 

He has to swallow down the urge to lean down and kiss him. Because Eddie wouldn’t like it. He hasn’t brushed his teeth yet, and even though Eddie can be a bit fanatical he seriously doubts the guy brushes before his morning caffeine burst. There’s just something about Eddie, and the morning light (cool, fresh colors, beginning again), that makes Richie ache to reacquaint himself with Eddie’s mouth. 

But, also, just because they’d been fucking last night doesn’t mean that Eddie wants any of  _ this.  _ Richie doesn’t have any idea if Eddie wants to kiss him in the morning. To hold his hand over the table while they tell each other their plans for the day. 

Because they hadn’t talked about this. Eddie’s just getting out of a marriage. Maybe there isn’t anything else to this but what they’ve already done. Or maybe there is. Who knows? 

And, what a fucking weird mid-ground Richie’s standing on. They’re friends. They’d fucked and made out and spent the rest of the night with Richie’s forehead tucked into Eddie’s collarbone. Arms holding one another, flush against each other. 

And now, in the morning light, Richie just  _ likes  _ Eddie, still, so much it hurts. 

What’s the name of a one-night-stand with the guy friend you’ve spent the majority of your youth loving? There has to be a word for it. And that word is probably in German. 

Fucking, Liebendontfuckthisupschen. 

All this to say, Richie doesn’t know if he should kiss Eddie, now. 

He wants to. But that doesn’t feel like enough of a capital-R Reason.

God, why is he so fucking weird? 

Swallowing it down, he pivots and turns to Eddie’s espresso machine. And, frankly, it looks like something out of a sci-fi movie. There are knobs and spigots and…

“What the fuck?” 

Eddie snickers and, from behind Richie, his chair scrapes against the laminate. “I’m on it.” 

And Richie watches with some kind of latent reverence as Eddie navigates his little kitchenette. He’s pouring the water in, pressing buttons, measuring out the grounds, all immediate and methodical. He has a pillow scar, fading fast, on his cheek. 

“So, what’d you want?” Eddie asks, securing the grounds onto the top apparatus, and pressing the button.

“What?” 

“Like, what kind of drink. Americano, latte, cappuccino, that kind of thing.” 

Richie shrugs. “You can make all that shit?” 

Eddie runs a finger along the spigoty bit of the gurgling machine. “That’s the steamer, right there.” 

“Well, fuck.” 

Eddie waits. A beat, and apparently Richie’s just taking too long because Eddie says, “Well, I know you don’t take it straight.” 

“We established that last night.” 

“Goddamn it,  _ Richie _ .” 

“Get it? ’Cause I’m gay?” 

“Yeah, I got that.” 

And Richie can feel the world slow down around him. Well. Shit. That’s the first time he’s ever said those exact words out loud, isn’t it? 

He never realized what a dissonance there is to  _ know it _ and to say it out loud. To say it out loud and not even have to look over his shoulder about it. Which seems fucking weird, especially with the intimate recollections of Eddie last night. But, nonetheless, it starts his heart-rate up. He might not even need the fucking espresso. 

It’s…

It’s a relief. 

But, despite the fact the world just started spinning in a completely new fucking direction, Eddie doesn’t seem to notice. Just accepts Richie’s words as content. 

Weird. 

“ _ No _ , dipshit. Because you don’t even take your coffee black and you wouldn’t be caught dead with plain espresso.” Eddie’s emoting and talking with his hands. He’s just so fucking cute when he’s raging. 

“Latte’s fine.” 


	15. Chapter 15

They're finishing breakfast, and Richie’s taken the chair not across from Eddie, but beside him, and they’re talking, not about anything of consequence, but of the coffee shops they usually go to, of the best times to go grocery shopping (Richie says late at night, Eddie says early morning), and about this new true-crime series online they’ve both - somehow - gotten obsessed with. And they drink their coffee, and it’s nice. Little B’s dozing on the couch, independent from them, and it’s a tiny microcosm of the kind of morning Richie never thought he’d wanted. 

He’s just finished his coffee when his phone sounds. A loud beeping, an overzealous tone. And it’s ten in the morning so who the hell would be calling…

The caller I.D reads:  _ STEVE COVALI.  _

Oh, fuck. Not  _ now.  _ He doesn’t want to go back. 

But Eddie’s looking over his shoulder, saying, “You should probably get that.” 

And, yeah, he  _ should _ . But the second Richie picks up the phone and talks to Steve is the second he’s closing down this biome. The second he stops being this person he’s been for the past nine hours, and turns back into Richie Tozier. 

But. Nevertheless. He presses the green phone button and lifts it to his ear. “Go for Trashmouth.” 

“Rich? Oh, thank God. I had no idea where the hell you went after. I thought you’d got in a car crash or something. ” 

“Crashed into  _ somethin’ _ .” Richie mumbles. From beside him, Eddie shoves. Not hard enough to knock him over, but enough to function as the telltale  _ beep-beep  _ that he’s hurtling towards. 

He sighs and turns his attention back to Steve, who’s in the middle of a sentence that Richie doesn’t care to guess the beginning for: “--ing to get done, you know?” 

“Um. Sure.” 

Steve sounds exasperated. Richie kind of feels bad for him. “So, we need to sit down and have a talk about last night.” 

“Do we, though?” 

“Yes. You broke your contract with the writers. Skimped out on half your set. And - yeah, yeah - I know you came back but the fact you even left in the first place...you know how some venues have whole legal teams. I’m just one guy.” Richie can see, in his mind’s eye, Steve pressing his hand into his brow. “You really should’ve talked to me, Rich.” 

“Is it any better that I didn’t know what I was gonna do before I was doing it?” 

“Absolutely not.” 

Richie can’t help but chuckle. Eddie looks up at him, a quizzical frown on his face. Richie waves to indicate that it’s all fine and goes on. “Okay, Steve-o. Then what do you suggest?” 

“We need to meet up and you need to tell me what the hell you wanna say.” 

“When?” 

There’s a delay. “I...I texted you last night.” 

Richie runs his tongue over the insides of his teeth. “My hands were a bit... _ tied _ last night.” 

Eddie’s across the room, rolling his eyes. And Steve’s going on. “Well. We just need to plan out what you’re gonna say. And how - on Twitter or Conan, or whichever.” 

“Out of all the shit I’ve said, why do I need to get all formal about this?” 

“Yeah. Well. Welcome to being a comedian in 2016.” Steve sighs. “Look. Rich. I’m on your side, here. You sink, I sink. But you’ve gotta keep me on the same page as you. I can’t help you if you don’t let me.” 

Steve’s a good manager. Richie shouldn’t be such a shit about it. “Okay,” He says after a long wait. “Sorry.” 

From the background, Richie can hear typing. Steve exhales, huffing. All business. Or, trying to be anyway. 

* * *

Richie enters the Hilton, alone, in the same clothes as yesterday, and - Steve already has papers fanned out in front of him, and his laptop out. He takes a seat across from Steve, and nods, “Hey.” 

“Hey.” Steve sticks a pen between his teeth and types, furiously. And then he draws a scattered star on the page. And - finally - turns to Richie. All business. “The good news is that, since this happened last night, we have some time to strategize for your early reactions.” 

It’s a little baffling. Richie’s not a huge celebrity, or anything. He doesn’t require bouncers or doormen. But, instead of articulating that, what Richie says is “Okay.” 

Steve looks like he hadn't slept at all last night. His hair is all clumped from the gel. “So, as far as venues go, the biggest issue I can see is that you might seem wishy-washy after this. Like you don’t honor a contract. Walking out midway through, changing the script post-rehearsal. Stuff like that.” 

“I came back, though. And I’ve been doing this for twenty years. Don’t I get three frickin’ strikes or something?” 

Steve nods. “The fact that you’ve always been good for your signature up to now will help. But, then there’s the other question.” 

“Being?” 

“Whether or not you can still fill up an auditorium.” 

“Oh, come  _ on.”  _ Richie sighs. Leans back. His legs feel stiff in his jeans. 

“People wanna know what they’re signing up for.” Steve’s plain in his language. Direct. It helps, Richie decides. “And after that? You’re a wild card.”   
“Can’t we lean into that?” 

“We  _ could.  _ But I don’t think that’s a good tactic. There’s a subset of the Internet that’s pretty pissed at you. Granted, they’re not really the demographic that’s seeing your shows anyway, but they do have a nose for this stuff. And we can’t really afford to alienate anyone. The more people who like your stuff, the better off we are. And...right now? Well...” 

“What are they even saying?” 

Steve shakes his head. He sighs. And Richie knows that Steve knows that, if Steve doesn’t tell him, he’s just gonna look it up himself. And so, Steve tells him. “Mostly that you’re exploiting a minority and that,” He holds up a sheet he printed of various Tweets. Says, reading without punctuation: “‘ _ That’s gay’ isn’t a fucking punchline what is this 2003.’  _ And then there’s the little angry red emoji guy. _ ”  _

And it’s so bizarre - so dissonant. Richie honestly can’t even believe his show was last night. It’d stretched so long. Changed so much. And, it seems like a lifetime ago. 

But, he can’t help it. He laughs. He laughs so hard his shoulders start to quake. 

“Wanna fill me in?” Steve asks. 

“Steve…” And Richie isn’t sure exactly how to say it again. The second time he’ll commit this to words. And this time, in public. Professionally. And he’s not gonna sugar coat it or get sentimental. That...that he can’t do. Not yet anyway. And so, he says, “I’m...I like men. Exclusively. I’m super fuckin’ gay.” 

“Oh.” Steve’s face pulls long, but only for a moment. Then he fucking nods and scribbles something down on his legal pad. “That’s...new. A little unexpected.” 

And, he’s so fucking blase about it, Richie has to ask. “The fuck do you mean ‘a little unexpected?’” 

“Oh, nothing.” Steve’s still writing something down. And then he looks up at Richie. “I just always figured that was more...bi energy, is all.” 

Richie can feel himself gape. He’s sure he looks like a catfish or something dumb. “What the shit is  _ bi energy? _ ” 

“Millennial jargon.” Steve waves his hand and steers the conversation again. “So. This was just a personal thing you’re telling me, right? You’re not thinking about coming out publicly.” 

He hadn’t thought about it. But, nevertheless, he can’t help but wonder: “I thought...kind of did. Yesterday.” 

“You can’t be vague about shit like that. You can still backpedal.” 

“Should I?” 

“Look,” Steve says, suddenly unable to look Richie in the eye. “As your manager, and only as your manager, I have to advise you against doing this whole...song and dance.” 

Richie stares. Prompts him to go on with a stiff, “Okay?” 

“You and your...boyfriend, I guess, seem very happy together…” 

_ Oh come on,  _ Richie thinks. If he’s so fucking transparent all the fucking time, then why the hell are they even debating this? He shouldn’t be able to keep even one fucking secret, at this rate. Shouldn’t everyone already fucking  _ know?  _

Steve goes on: “But it could literally kill your career. You’ve got a brand, and our best course of action is to stick to it. Make it seem like you were high last night and move on.” 

“Blame it on drugs,  _ that’s _ your big plan?” 

“I’m sorry, Rich. What do you want me to say? You’ve been acting straight for twenty years.” 

Richie winces. That’s half his fucking life. Half of it, already in the bottom of the hourglass. 

Steve doesn’t notice, continuing: “And, what, you just want to turn around and say you’ve been lying?” 

“I mean, that’s the truth.” 

“Yeah, but think about how it’ll look. You’ll be throwing your writers under a bus--” 

“Fuck the writers,” Richie snaps, realizing just now that he’s been grinding his teeth. 

There’s a beat. A wait. And then, “Are you seriously gonna fire people who’ve worked for you  _ for years,  _ after they’ve done nothing wrong?” 

Richie bites his tongue. Isn’t that just fucking perfect? He got so lost in his fucking head that he’d forgotten - entirely - that someone’s livelihood depended on writing hack jokes for Richie’s set. Several someones. 

But. But he can’t keep going on as he has been. He just  _ can’t _ . Can he? Maybe he can. It’s been twenty years. What’s twenty years more? 

_ God,  _ Richie’s an asshole. 

He chews it over. Thinks about it. And then he says, “I guess that’d be a shitty thing to do.” 

“Hey,” Steve says, after Richie’s been chewing on his thumb for a little too long. “You’re actually in a pretty good place, Rich. You don’t have to worry about paparazzi or anything. And it’ll turn your aversion into getting personal on social media into a good thing. You know. You can be happy with Eddie. Move in with him. You could even marry him if you want. You just can’t...be public about it.” 

Richie blinks. “Are you saying I should get  _ secret married _ ?” 

“I’m only saying you could. Not being out doesn’t mean you can’t be happy.” 

Richie chews on his cheek. His stomach lurches, souring. He hears a singsong voice, in the back of his head, telling him to bolt. 

He never would’ve imagined, after all that shit that felt so much like progress, he’d be back at square one. 


	16. Chapter 16

On the way back to Eddie’s, wandering through crowds of busy people and construction zones, Richie calls Stanley. He isn’t even sure why, but there’s only two rings before Stan picks up, and Richie can breathe a little easier. 

“What’s up, Richie?” 

Not even a hello, just right into it. Richie’s thankful. He just doesn’t know what to say. So, he sighs and plunges his free hand into his pocket. “Nothin’ much. Just wandering through NYC and thought I’d give you a ring-a-ling.” 

“Oh?” Stanley says. There’s a beat, and then: “How’d your set go?” 

“Fine. Great. Wonderful.” 

There’s a pause. Richie checks his bars. They’re all there. He’s putting the phone back to his ear in the same moment Stanley says, “That doesn’t sound at all convincing.” 

“Well. Shows what you know, Stanley.” 

Stanley hums, softly. Richie meanders around a group of people, accidentally knocking elbows with a couple passersby. They don’t notice. Once he’s through the din, he says into the receiver, “But, y’know. We’ve kind of already established that you’re fucking Sherlock Uris over here.” 

Richie can hear Stanley’s intake of air. A soft laugh, or something close. And Stanley says, “It’s just called being observant.” 

“Elementary, my dear Stanny.” Richie echoes, big fancy British accent furnishing his voice. 

“I thought I was Sherlock?” 

“I don’t fucking know, man. What kind of a nerd do you think I am?” 

A pause. From the other line: “But, you’re okay?” 

It sucks. It all, simply, sucks. But Richie nods, even though Stan can’t see him. “You betcha.” 

“That’s...good.” 

Richie stops, shuffles from side to side. And, he doesn’t want to watch anything  _ else  _ crumble. And if his career’s gonna be on fire....something else has to give. And so, he says, “You should call more often. It’s been, like, a month.” 

Stan snorts, but then he says, “I didn’t want to push it.” 

“Well. Thanks, man. That might not be such a big deal anymore though.” 

“What do you mean?”  
  
“I’ll tell you later. You seen any fucked up birds lately?” 

Stanley laughs but, accountably, doesn’t push it. It’s a nice respite. 

They talk until Richie gets to the subway. Not about anything in particular, not about anything important, but the back-and-forth of conversation, the levity of it all, is enough of a distraction that Richie can, just for a little bit, push everything from the day to the back, the  _ way _ back, of his mind. 

* * *

Eddie’s given Richie a spare key, just for now, for when he comes back from his meeting to pick up Little B. Because of this, he assumed Eds had somewhere to be that evening. He’s anticipated having a few more minutes to parse through his conversation with Steve. He’s anticipated re-entering Eddie’s place to find it dark and with Little B snoring alone on the couch. 

And, she’s snoring all right. But she isn’t alone. Richie’s swung open the door to find the TV on, some mid-season  _ Breaking Bad  _ rerun catapulting glowing blue light into the space, and Eddie, dozing with his head on a throw pillow, Little B’s curled up to him, chin resting on his knee. She sees Richie and her tail starts to beat against the fabric of the couch. She doesn’t move though. 

Eddie’s mouth hangs open and his brow’s stiff - Richie can see the contradicting frown lines and crow’s feet on his face. 

It’s -- all together, super fucking cute. The kind of cute shit that belongs on some bombed-out-wine-mom’s Pinterest board. 

It’s a fucking tragedy to break up the picture, but what the hell is Richie supposed to do? Just abscond with Little B and leave Eddie there to wake up to the sound of bullets from the TV? 

So he crouches down, tapping Eddie on the cheek. “Psst. Hey. Eds. Wakey wakey, Sleeping Beauty.” 

Eddie jolts up, wiping the little bit of sleepy-drool that’d seeped through his lips. “The  _ fuck,  _ man?” 

He’s spoken before his eyes are even awake. Like it’s an automatic fucking response. 

Which. Of course it would be. That’s just  _ Eddie _ . 

Richie can’t help it. He’s smiling. “It’s getting late. Little B and I need to head out.” 

Eddie sits up. “You should stay.” 

“I don’t know, Eds. I’ve got an early morning.” 

Eddie scoots over, making room for Richie on the couch. “Meeting didn’t go well?” 

And Richie can feel the air constrict out of his lungs as he sits. He’s deflated. The backburner is boiling over. His eyes are fucking burning. Nothing falls, but he can feel the wetness in his eyes. “Goddammit.” 

Fuck it. Fuck this. All of it. 

“Shit. Richie…” 

“I’m fine.” He wipes at his face. “It’s...stupid.” 

“I’m sure it is,” Eddie says, flat. “What is it?” 

Richie runs a hand along Little B’s back, he can feel Eddie at his side. A tentative hand on his knee. It’s warm. It feels like it belongs there. And Richie sighs. “I mean, I don’t even fuckin’ care. I just thought it might be nice to not push last night under the rug.” 

Eddie frowns. Straightens his back. His tone is harsher, now. “ _ What?”  _

“I meant onstage. Not...not you. But..actually...no. I thought...I mean. The set from last night wasn’t good, I fucking know that much. But it could’ve been. Maybe...fuck, I dunno. Maybe I thought I’d be...getting something out of this fucking midlife crisis. But,” And he sniffs, tries to shift his voice into something overdramatic and husky, like a starlet from the 30s. “The public wants what it wants.” 

And Eddie pauses. He’s staring real hard into Richie’s eyes, and he’s trying hard - visibly - to think of something to say. Eventually, he says, “The public’ll live without another ‘masturbating to my girlfriend’s friends’ joke.” 

“Tell that to Steve.” 

“...what?” 

“Yeah. Turns out being gay isn’t super on-brand.” Richie talks fast. He has to flatten his affect. Or else. “Do you have any beer? Or, like,  _ absinthe? _ ”  _ _

“There’s Riesling in the fridge,” Eddie says, blinking and following after Richie as he crosses the room to the kitchenette wall. “What the fuck did he say to you?” 

Richie’s already got the corkscrew in hand. He’s twisting, hard, knuckles white. “Just that I can’t...” He tugs. The cork budges, a little. He tugs again. “Go off script again…”  _ Tug.  _ “For any reason.” 

The cork is stuck. But he’s already half in the thick of it. And so, he tugs again. “Because nobody wants to listen to a forty-year-old queer say that - oops, he’s fucked up his whole life.” The cork comes off, shishkabobed by the screw. The wine sloshes over in its bottleneck, spilling over the back of Richie’s hand. He takes a couple of wine glasses down from the cupboard. “And what’s done is done, so if I ever wanna work again, I just need to suck it up and talk about tits. Or else my writers will be living in fucking cardboard boxes on Melrose Avenue.” 

He tips the wine bottle, overfilling his glass. “Need a heavier pour.” 

Eddie steps closer, maybe thinking about taking the wine bottle, but he doesn’t. Richie, unthinkingly, starts to fill the second glass. Eddie frowns. He starts to pace. “Are you  _ fucking  _ kidding me? Who does he think he is? This is bullshit. I’m gonna fucking walk down to that Hilton and--” 

“Eddie. He knows what he’s talking about. He’s my manager.” Richie takes Eddie’s hand to stop him from actually going through with it. His has substantially more wine in it, but he doesn’t think Eddie will grouse about it too much. 

“Yeah,” Eddie says, “ _ He _ works for  _ you _ . His beach house in Aspen isn’t more important than you are. He can go fuck himself.” 

Richie shoots back almost half his wine. It’s sweet as it trickles down his throat. Too sweet. He just wants to feel the usual burn down his throat. But, seeing as that’s not gonna happen, he settles for the Reisling. He sighs. “That’s sweet, Eds, but it’ll be fine. It’s more of the same. With a little blip on the radar. I’ve done this for twenty years, I can keep going.” 

“Till when? When you’re sixty? When you’re dead? You  _ know  _ that’s bullshit.” 

“Well, it’s not  _ all  _ the time.” Richie breathes out slow. It feels wrong, somehow, just saying it. Young. Naive. “Only on stage and social media and shit.” 

“Are you kidding me?” Eddie’s turned to him -  _ on  _ him, eyes wide and frown deep. “That’s not how this works. What guy’s gonna want to be some dirty little secret? What’s he supposed to do while you’re out reading script some sellout hacks wrote for you? Stay home and fucking bake cookies while you turn around and pretend he doesn’t exist?” 

“Eddie--” Richie begins, but Eddie’s on a fucking roll. 

“And I know you didn’t ask me, you asshole, but, if it’s me? If that’s the deal, I’m out. I’m  _ done _ . _ ”  _

Richie’s sure his heart is beating out of his chest, like he’s a fucking cartoon character or something, but he tries not to growl - or cry or break or whatever the fuck else it is he’s feeling - when he asks, “So what do  _ you  _ suggest I do? 

“The same thing you always do! Whatever the fuck you want!” Eddie’s yelling. From the couch, Little B barks. Eddie’s breathing hard, and his face is red, and then - after a moment, he exhales. Long and low. “Just, let me know what that is.” 

Richie’s staring down an empty glass. His fingers tap on the smooth surface, and Eddie’s timbre still wafts through the air. 

He’s right. Richie knows he’s right. This might all just be some big excuse, something to stop him from crossing that doorway. There’s always a good reason to stay put. To accept life as is and move on, getting whatever nominal joys exist. 

But, now. He’s teetering. He can keep doing this. No, he can’t. He knows he can’t. The fear and uncertainty are boulders and it’s  _ crushing _ him. He doesn’t regret what he said on stage; he regrets that he didn’t say more. 

And that’s really fucking terrifying. But he’s gonna regret it on his deathbed if he doesn’t  _ try,  _ isn’t he? He’s gonna regret firing a bunch of people just because he didn’t have his shit together, too. 

Damned if he does, damned if he doesn’t. 

Richie breathes, slowly. Sighs. Closes his eyes. 

Eddie’s sober, eyes boring into him, but he reaches out, a tentative hand glides on his spine. The pressure feels hopeful, somehow. “Richie?” 

“I don’t fucking know.” 

“You need to figure this shit out.” 

Eddie’s not exactly angry, anymore. At least not as far as Richie can tell. But he’s firm and sitting beside him. Frowning. Staring. 

It’s just...a lot. 

“It’s my  _ life _ , Eddie.” Richie sighs. “People  _ like  _ me. I can’t just...put that in danger.” 

“That’s your life? So what’s this? Some kind of fucking switch you can flip on and off at night or when you’re horny?” 

“That’s not what I said.” 

“Then what  _ are  _ you saying?” 

“I’m saying I need time.” 

“Time? You’re going back to California  _ tomorrow!”  _

And...well..

_ Boom!  _

It’s like an anvil drops. As though some door slammed somewhere. The apartment practically shakes. 

Right. It’s shocking, how easy it is to forget that Eddie hasn’t been a permanent fixture in his life since they were kids. He slides back in so easily. 

Eddie shakes his head. Rises from the couch, and stands in front of Richie. “This is fucking stupid. We’re acting like we’re…fuck. I don’t know.” 

“Like it was gonna matter tomorrow.” 

Eddie swallows. Slow. He scratches at the back of his neck. He exhales. “We don’t actually have a reason to be fighting right now, do we?” 

“Other than we do it so well?” 

“I guess,” Eddie says. His face draws down, tight. Like he’s actually thinking over what comes out of his mouth next. “For whatever it’s worth - and that might not be anything, I don’t fucking know - but I don’t think Covali’s giving you enough credit. You could perform in someone’s garage somewhere and people’d come to see you.” 

Richie chokes up a grin. “It kinda sounds like you’re saying you think I’m funny.” 

“You know I don’t,” Eddie says. It’s weirdly obvious that he doesn’t mean it. “But a lot of fucking people do.” 

Even if, by all discernable definitions of the word would disagree, it’s sweet. No hint of irony, no barbs on his words. And Richie, because of that, can’t decide what to do. He goes in to clean his glasses to give himself something to do with his hands. “They do always come. Like flies to dog shit.”

“Fuck you, I’m being serious.” Eddie snaps, sinks into a sullen, sulky quiet. 

Richie puts his glasses back on and shuffles his feet. “Thanks, Eds.” 

“Mmmhmm,” Eddie says, and then turns around, over to the kitchenette, grabbing his forgotten half-glass of Riesling and shooting it back. 

And, it’s too quiet, Richie crouches down and pets Little B, looking over his shoulder at Eddie, staring down his wine glass. And he can’t just let the silence sink in, and so he swings ahead, full speed. “So, before you remembered I’m leaving tomorrow were you, like, trying to date me or something? You’ve gotta work on your technique. Woo a guy, a little.” 

Eddie groans. It’s familiar. It’s nice. At the same time: cold, cold comfort. Like it’s always been. “Oh, shut up. I’m not trying to fucking date you.” 

“Just bone me?” 

Eddie blushes. His ears are bright red. “God. Why are you like this? That’s not what I’m saying, dickwad.” 

Hm. Bit of a setback, that. 

“What about the other way around?” 

It’s something Richie, really, shouldn’t be saying. It’s already too complicated. They’d already gotten lost in these walls. Acted like this something it wasn’t. But that was just a momentary slip-up. They should be perfectly capable of doing this without that line of reality blurring. 

Richie’s sure. 

And Eddie seems to agree with him, taking a step forward. He’s looking at Richie’s mouth. He’s close, so close. “If this is your idea of ‘wooing’ somebody, I gotta say, it really sucks.” 

The problem here, Richie decides, is that he can’t fucking help himself. Can’t fight the impulse. 

“Okay,” He says. “What about this?” 

Richie’s hands find their way to Eddie’s face, Richie’s lips to Eddie’s, his fingertips caress his neck, and Eddie swings his arms down Richie, clamping around his waist with a decadent, beautiful,  _ tangible _ thud _ .  _


	17. Chapter 17

Tonight, they’re slower. Richie intertwines their fingers with one hand, Eddie flush against his back, and rubs him off with the other. Eddie’s face is turned, he’s warbling out expletives, delirious little noises, Richie’s name. 

Richie could, very seriously, fall in love like this. Just the two of them, the hot-slick movements between their bodies, the way Eddie tightens and releases. The way, after, he’ll kiss him and doze off. And soon, it’ll slip through their fingers. Like water. Like smoke. 

The idea is a little frightening, a little like standing on the edge of a fire escape, palms throbbing to jump over the bannister, but -- when Eddie’s eyes flutter open again and he’ll accuse him,  _ What’re you staring at?  _ \-- totally worth the indulgences.

* * *

Afterward, Richie curls into Eddie, lying on his stomach. Their legs intertwine and, absently, he’s running his hand over the thin line of hair in under his sternum. Eddie’s all blurry, but warm under Richie’s hands. He’s tracing circles on Richie’s back. It’s soothing as shit. Nice. Warm. 

Almost as an afterthought, Richie presses a kiss to his shoulder. 

Eddie exhales. A soft sound -- unvoiced, breathy. And then, “Hey, Richie?” 

“Yeah, Eds?” Richie’s smiling. He moves up to kiss him, soft, on the mouth. His toes run over the back of Eddie’s calf. 

“Everything’s okay, right?” 

Richie can feel Eddie’s fingers steeple down his spine, soft pressure rolling down his back. 

“Duh,” he says through a soft, shaky laugh. “Why wouldn’t it be?” 

“Richie…” 

“Let’s just make out a little, okay?” Richie offers by way of interruption. Fake smile plastered on his face. Eddie’s blurry face contracts in a frown. 

“Like that’s really gonna fix anything? Richie--” 

Richie tries again. “Please.” 

“Are you  _ good?”  _ Eddie repeats. Stares at him. 

Richie chokes up a grin. “Great.” 

He can tell Eddie doesn’t believe him, not really. But he puts his hand on Richie’s cheek anyway. 

And they close the gap between them. 

It hurts. Right through his heart. Like he’s fucking skewered or something. All he can think about is how much he wants this, again, tomorrow. Eddie’s lips and his hands on him, and the way they phase closer and closer into one another. He wants this. Now. Later. Again. 

It’s greedy and he’s starving and there’s nothing to do except get used to the idea that “again” might never come back. 

* * *

In the morning, Eddie makes him breakfast. It’s nothing fancy. He doesn’t have a bright culinary career ahead of him or anything. Just scrambled eggs and toast. But he plops the plate in front of Richie and kisses the top of his head like it’s fucking nothing. Like they’re always like this. 

“Trying to be a housewife there, Eds?” Richie asks, slathering his toast in strawberry jelly. 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Just let me get all decked out for it. Your mom left her pearls here last week.” 

Richie’s laugh shakes his shoulders. He covers his mouth. “Goddamn, Eddie. Ruthless.” 

Eddie grins his little self-satisfied smile and takes his own plate. After he sits down, it’s quiet for a moment. Just the sound of their chewing and Little B whining, begging for egg scraps on the floor between them. 

But Richie can’t really handle the quiet. He never can. “How long do you think it’ll take me to get to the airport from here? With the dog and the subway and everything.” 

Eddie bites down on his eggs, swallows, and says, “I’ll just drive you. It’s LaGuardia, right? That’s, like, twenty minutes.” 

“D’you fly much?” 

“No. I just know where the fucking airports are.” 

“Ooh, testy.” Richie grins. “Does somebody not like airplanes?” 

“You mean those fucking metal deathtraps?” 

“Isn’t flying commercially, like...safer than trains, or something?” Richie thinks he remembers one of Eddie’s rants with something like that. 

“Do you  _ want  _ me to pull the danger statistics?” 

“No. I just woke up and nothing would put me back to sleep faster than you talking about your job.” 

Eddie flips him off but rants on. “And besides safety, it’s just not clean. People change their fucking baby’s diapers right in the cabin on the tables people then put their food on. Do you have any idea the kind of shit that can’t possibly get cleaned up in there? And one person - one  _ fucking  _ person pukes from turbulence and it’s all over. The plane is a fucking petri dish of disease.” 

“ _ Well _ ,” Richie sighs, flicking a bit of egg onto the floor for Little B. “That kind of ruins my follow-up.” 

Eddie frowns. Hums. “Huh?” 

Richie shrugs. “If you’ve got any vacation time left this year, you could come out to SoCal.” 

“What for?” He asks, looking up to meet Richie’s eyes. 

“I don’t fucking know. Disneyland. In-N-Out Burger. Authentic taco trucks. Me.” 

He shouldn’t have said that last part. Richie’s leaving in four hours. They’ve already established that. Nothing’s happening. Nothing’s Going On here. Richie’s continuing the way he has been. Eddie, too. It’s going to be more of the same, in the name of stability, and Richie really shouldn’t be sabotaging this by being so much like himself. 

“Richie…” 

They’ve been over this. 

“C’mon. Think about it.” Richie corrects himself. “Just friendly stuff. Nothing sexy unless you can’t help yourself with all  _ this.” _

Richie needs to pump the brakes, for fuck’s sake. 

But Eddie laughs. Eddie laughs and it’s the greatest sound he’s ever fucking heard. 

Nothing can make up for the fact, though, that he really,  _ really, _ doesn’t want to. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank everyone who commented on the last chapter! I'm so sorry I didn't get around to responding to everyone individually. It's exam week, and everything's on fire. 
> 
> We may be on another mini-hiatus. Like I mentioned, it's exam week and almost immediately after I'm heading out-of-state for holiday festivities with my almost-in-laws. But who knows. I sure as hell don't. Mad props to everyone who's consistent with long fics, like damn.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I take some liberties here with Twitter's 140 character minimum. Mostly for flow and drama.
> 
> Also, the formatting's a little weird. I was doing final edits on this during downtime over the holiday without wifi and, I guess, my word processor fucked with alignment. Sorry about that.
> 
> Also, also, I'm so sorry I didn't get around to replying to comments AGAIN. Like I mentioned, I had finals and then I've been all around and haven't had much time to get online. But I read and appreciate them all. Thank you so much for commenting, everyone, especially on the last chapter.

Richie hadn’t been expecting Eddie to come into the airport with him, walk him to security or anything, so it’s unsurprising when he slides in the drop-off lane, maneuvering a tight parallel park like it’s nothing. The front doors are right there, the screens behind them shining through into the daylight. 

It feels so final. 

Little B is whining in her crate. 

“You know, it’s like a fucking entire city in the airport. D’you think we could just roll right up on the tarmac?  _ Casablanca  _ style.” Richie nevertheless unclips his seatbelt, and then sits. Looking over at Eddie, who’s acting like the gear shift is the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. 

“No,” Eddie says, finally after a moment. “I don’t think they’d let us do that.” 

“Shit. Bummer.” 

Someone honks their horn, speeding by. Not so much to tell them to move along, Richie figures, but more to point out that the drop off area isn’t for sitting and stalling. They, whoever they are, can suck his dick. 

Eddie, however, breaks the moment. “Richie. You’ve got a plane to catch.” 

“Yeah. I guess.” Richie runs a hand through his hair. He reaches into the backseat to get his duffle bag. He’ll have to walk around to get Little B. But it’s less time he’ll have to spend hovering on the outside of the car. “Um. Let me know about that vacation, Eds.” 

“Will do.” Eddie breathes. He gives him a haphazard smile, looking sad in the eyes, or maybe Richie’s projecting. “Now will you get the hell out of my car?” 

Richie doesn’t quite know what to make of it all, but he nods and his ‘Bye’ is muted, under his breath. Next thing he knows, he’s got a hand on Eddie’s cheek. Kissing him instead of actually saying he’s sorry. Or that he’ll miss him. It’s shorthand. It’s safer than saying anything. 

Eddie kisses back, one hand still on the steering wheel and the other on Richie’s shoulder. 

Richie doesn't know how long it lasts. But whatever it is, it’s not enough. 

And, Richie knows that they’re technically in public. Eddie’s windows aren’t tinted. People could see. People could talk. But, there’s a sort of anonymity in the busyness, there’s a realization that everyone’s so wrapped up in themselves that nobody’ll care. 

And, even if somebody does, and Richie has to deal with the fallout via Steve, well…

It’s worth it.

* * *

By the time Richie shuffles up to his gate, Steve is already there reading something on his phone. He’s finally slept and showered and he greets Richie with a smile and a coffee, extended out to him. “Mornin’ Rich,” He says, “Sleep well?” 

“Like the dead, I guess.” Richie’s tentative, but takes the coffee. He’s not a masochist, after all. 

“You really need to get better at checking your phone. The hotel said you didn’t respond to your wake up call, and I was about to send people out to find you.” 

“I was...I was at Eddie’s.” 

Steve nods, going on like nothing’s wrong.

It’s fucking weird. 

But then, the fucking weirder thing, is now he’s off on a completely different tangent. He’s saying, “Next time Eddie comes to see you in L.A, you guys should come over for dinner with me and the wife.” 

What the  _ fuck.  _

“What?” 

“What-what?” Steve blinks. “I make an excellent barbecue.” 

“I’m not actually sure of the protocol here, Steve.” Richie says, carefully placing Little B’s crate on the carpet. “Throw me a bone here.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean. I’m getting some mixed signals.” He lowers his voice and kind of hates himself for it. “About the gay thing.” 

“It’s not  _ personal,  _ Rich.” Steve goes to sit down on the plastic bench. “It kind of sucks, but this is what we’re working with.” 

Kind of sucks is a bit of an understatement. It’s hollow and, goddamn it, it doesn’t fucking matter. All he’s doing is pointing out the obvious. 

And none of that’s to say how unsatisfying it all seems. Because, hell, Stan’s known for twenty-seven years. After that nothing, really, changed. Eddie knows. Things changed there, but in the reenacting all of Richie’s old wet dreams kind of way. So. He’s not complaining, there. 

Yeah, these are just two specific, close-to-home instances, but why should those instances matter any less than the big picture? 

* * *

Richie tries to shake the nervousness. The bounce in his leg won't still. There's that annoying nag in his head, the voice telling him to turn tail. To run back. To get his dog and get in a cab and get out of the airport. He can't get rid of it, no matter how hard he tries to rationalize. He's never been good at that. 

It occurs to him, that maybe he'll behave better if he just bites the bullet and look at what kind of damage he's looking at. 

Looking over his shoulder to Steve, like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar, and finding his manager tied up in his own phone, thumbs open his Twitter. 

And, at first, it's not so bad. He sees the Tweets Steve read to him, and...well, they weren't exactly  _ fair,  _ but it wasn't like anyone was aware of the full picture. 

But, a few of them, kind of hurt. It's not like Richie wasn't used to people calling him a hack or anything, but some of them were cutting deep. And, insinuating that Richie had no idea how badly those words could hurt? Like he was co-opting something that'd never been used against him. 

Like. What the actual fuck? 

Those weren't as bad, though, as the alternative. The people, on the other end, cheering Richie on for not falling into the 'PC shitstorm,' of 'the LGBT.' And, those were milder. 

Because, the thing is, Richie doesn't want to be defended. He wasn't being anti-PC or even PC or anything like that at all. He was talking about his own fucking life, and maybe without context it looked bad. 

The Internet is infuriating, sometimes. 

He's about to turn it off, to sigh and roll his eyes and figure out how to word his amended. To talk about how he was just quoting an old movie, and how much autobiography he can admit until he's actually coming out. 

But then he scrolls a little further. 

> Tweet by _@adrian_m: _ _ ok so maybe I'm reaching but you know how I live for drama and shit so buckle in (1/?)  _
> 
> Tweet by_ @adrian_m: _ _ don showed me the leaked clips of richie tozier's set that everyone at his studio is screaming about (2/?)  _
> 
> Tweet by _@adrian_m: _ _ and like i've read a lot of hot takes about how he was like making light of the homophobia in the 80s and like ok (3/?)  _
> 
> Tweet by @_adrian_m: _ _ but like did anyone actually WATCH what happened? like not just what he said but how it went? (4/?)  _
> 
> Tweet by _@adrian_m : _ _ i don't even like his stuff but don's got a media project for his MA & it involves us watching a lot of Straight White Comedians (5/?)  _
> 
> Tweet by _@adrian_m: _ _ back to trashmouth. Here's the set if anyone needs a refresher  [ www.freevid2.com/watch+richie+tozier+34f ](http://www.youtube.com/watch+vsjlkasdf) (6/?)  _
> 
> Tweet by_ @adrian_m: h_ _ e starts like all his normal stuff but then at 3:12 he forgets a joke and turns. Its all so different. (7/?)  _
> 
> Tweet by_ @adrian_m: _ _ _ _ He starts talking about his childhood and? He doesn't usually?  _ _ and then comes the Thing everyone's yelling about (8/?)  _
> 
> Tweet by _@adrian_m: _ _ he mentions teen wolf. He uses the f slur. And then 'I don't know how they got their hands on my diary.' & says he couldn't talk to his friends (9/?)  _
> 
> Tweet by_ @adrian_m: _ _ and then leaves and comes back 10 mins later knocked down a few pegs but back to similar stuff as before – weed and women and stuff. (10/?)  _

And, for what it's worth. Richie dosen't think  _ that's  _ a fair assessment, but he can't help but keep scrolling through the thread. 

> Tweet by _@adrian_m: _ _ and like maybe it's just a 40yo comedian being crass. And maybe it's all a joke. BUT... (11/?)  _
> 
> Tweet by _@adrian_m: _ _ maybe it's him dealing with how queer feelings were internalized when he was growing up. I'm NOT saying i think he's gay but (12/?)  _
> 
> Tweet by _@adrian_m: _ _ he obviously has a lot of anxiety about being SEEN as gay and like he's always making jokes about cunnilingus and 'Straight Dude' signifiers so he's not really in danger of that (13/?)  _
> 
> Tweet by _@adrian_m: _ _ so he's obviously working through some stuff. Whether that's because he's dealing with leftovers of the 80s – where we were DYING by the millions btw (15/?)  _
> 
> Tweet by _@adrian_m: _ _ OR he's reflecting on something in himself. I'm not saying one way or another. But maybe we should all just stop being little bitches and let the man work thru this (16/?)  _
> 
> Tweet by_ @adrian_m: _ _ internalized homophobia is a bitch – whether you're gay or not and btw we actually don't KNOW about him so just – don't be even worse mmkay???? (end thread)  _

And, here's Richie, staring, gaping at his phone screen. What the fuck? Scrolling down, he's met with each Tweet, each with a couple hundred likes. The replies vary. A lot of them accuse this adrian_m of reading too far into it, some asking him to go outside. Some insist that, despite the fact he kept on contradicting it, that he  _ was  _ calling Richie gay. And some, Richie notes with a rough twist to his stomach, insist Richie would be offended if he ever saw it. 

He'd have to be one hell of a hypocrite to be  _ offended _ . Of course, Twitter at large had no way to know how, an hour after the set, he'd been blowing Eddie like his life depended on it. So. no. He's not offended; it's not an offensive thing. He feels more... frighteningly seen. 

But Richie keeps scrolling and finds most of them echo some tune of, 'Wow, never thought of that.' Or, increasing his heart rate even more, one in particular: 

> Tweet by_ @brightnbabe: _ _ omg i see it?  _

And that one has its own hundred likes and, when Richie follows  _ that _ rabbit hole, there's more of the same. Loud, blaring wonderings edging dangerously to truth. And it even gets to the point where they come full circle. 

> Tweet by  _ @adrian_m:  reminder that it's really fucking shitty to out people & that i was NOT saying trashmouth IS gay just that it seems like he was DEALING with some things (1/2)  _
> 
> Tweet by _@adrian_m: _ _ i want answers too but we have to wait for him whatever its gonna be (2/2)  _

It seems more like this guy is covering his ass, but nevertheless, it sets Richie on edge. Because, someone – a stranger, and not even a fan – saw him and...

And that's what got him invested. 

Richie presses the home button on his phone. He needs a Cinnabon. Desperately.


	19. Chapter 19

A voice -- young, bright, female -- comes through the speakers while Richie licks frosting off his fingertips. It dissolves the second the sound moves his eardrums. “Flight AM2019 with Southwest will begin boarding zone A. Flight AM2019, now boarding zone A.” 

And here it is. His ride back to his life, back to L.A, and the promise that everything will go back to status quo. Like he never left. 

It’s more bleak than Richie wants to admit. 

Steve drains the rest of his coffee, puts it in a trashcan. Throwing his laptop case a little higher on his shoulder, he says, “That’s us. You ready?” 

He’s already turned, walking towards the line growing at the gate. And Richie…

Richie’s just standing there. His ears are ringing. 

“Rich?” Steve echoes, turning around on himself. “Rich, you okay?” 

“I’m not going.” 

It’s something Richie’s only piecing together as he’s saying it. But yeah. He’s not fucking going. Fuck this. 

Steve frowns. “What are you talking about?” 

“I’m not going back to L.A.” And, sure. He’ll have to  _ eventually.  _ He’s got a condo and shit down there. But, he’s not about to plan too far ahead. All he knows is what’s in front of him and he’s not taking another fucking step forward. 

He can’t agree to this. And getting on the plane seems, in some way, like he is. 

“We’ve got a schedule, you can’t just--” 

“No.” He shakes his head. “I’m not doing  _ any  _ of this.” 

He doesn’t have to. It’s not worth it. 

He can’t help it, he lets out a huge goddamn hyena laugh. He feels like someone just plucked him out from under a bus. Kissed his boo-boos and made it all better. Who? He doesn’t fucking know. But it could be fucking angel kisses for all he cares. 

Steve frowns. “Look, this really isn’t a great time for this. Can’t it just wait till we’re home? We can figure out a nice,  _ safe _ middle ground...” 

“You know what, Steve-o? I’m really sorry, man.” Maybe he’s yelling, or maybe that’s just the blood pumping to his ears making everything louder. He scoops up Little B’s crate, and is more or less already pivoted away. “But I can’t do it.” 

Throwing up his hands, rubbing his temple, really giving it all he’s got as far as exasperation goes, Steve groans under his breath. “I manage, like, four different people, and you’re literally the worst one, Rich,  _ goddamn.”  _

And that. That makes him stop. Something aches under his ribs and he asks, fingers burrowing into Little B’s fur. Without thinking, he says, “Is this our big  _ Gone With the Wind  _ moment? Do I get to say, ‘Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn?’” 

Steve stops. His jaw drops. “Are...are you  _ firing me?”  _

Richie stops. Steve's been the one constant in his career, the friend nearby, and even if he's been an asshole, there's still the smoking in hotel rooms, the movie marathons, and barbecues, and Richie doesn't want to throw that away. 

And – honestly – it hasn't even occurred to him. Richie gapes. “Well, are you quitting?” 

Steve blinks. “No. What the hell?” 

“Okay, then.” 

“Okay.” 

“I’m gonna do it, Steve. Maybe not right away, but...I'm gonna do it. I need to.” Richie sounds braver than he feels. But, maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s step one. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve mumbles, turning around with his carry-on slung over his shoulder. “I’ve got to catch the plane. I’ll Skype you from L.A.” 

Honestly. It seems like a bit of an anticlimax. Like he’s been building this all up into some big and scary thing and, now, suddenly...it just  _ isn’t.  _ Like the needle spinning around his own internal compass finally stopped spinning. Like he knows where he's going, and it's not - at all - scary. 

Before he goes through the gate, Steve turns over his shoulder. His frazzledness, his Manager Expression away replaced with the same wry grin that used to race him rolling joints. “And go get ‘im, tiger!” 

  
  


* * *

He’s kind of pictured, in his mind’s eye, some big epic chase out of the airport. Like security trying to stop him as he’s dashing the wrong way through the gate. Nobody does. They just let him walk right on out. 

It’s probably for the best, though, as Richie’s just trying to make himself put one foot in front of the other. 

He makes it to the front of the airport, the huge lobby with its restaurants and gift shops and rows upon rows of airline desks. 

Unhinging Little B’s crate, she pops out before he can secure her collar, into his arms. Rubbing her head on his knee. He snickers, softly, and pulls a leash, and bit of dried chicken, out of his messenger bag. 

“Change of plans, girl,” He mutters, taking a seat on a bench. Even though, at this point, he pretty much has to make it up as he goes. 

The next thing he does, though, is call Eddie. 

The phone rings and Richie can feel the vibration in the sound in his hand. Little B pops up into his lap, sniffing around his bag for more chicken tidbits. 

And then, after far too many rings, a voice. “Richie? Was your flight delayed?” 

“Uh. No.” He looks up above himself to get a better look at the massive screen detailing all the flights. It’s still set to depart in thirty minutes. “I’m not on it.” 

“Yeah. I got that.” Eddie pauses. “Shouldn’t you be?” 

“No. I’m not going.” The more he says it the weirder it sounds. He’s a fucking California resident, has been for years, and here he is stuck like glue to New England. To the fighty, high-strung people there. He goes on: “Can I crash with you for a little bit longer?” 

“What’s your exit strategy?” 

“Don’t have one.” Richie laughs, a little. It’s weak. “I just can’t do this bullshit.” 

“You mean…?” Eddie doesn’t vocalize it. But Richie thinks he’s picking up on what he’s lying down. 

“Yeah.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yep.” 

“What about L.A? Your life?” 

“People live here,” Richie says, watching the freakin’ city of people rushing to and fro, making their way to baggage claim. Kissing loved ones outside the security scanners. “I could too.”

_ If you want.  _

It’s a request. For what, he’s unsure. Permission? Validation? Who the fuck even knows? It feels a little like begging, but California heat is just too intense, anyway. 

So much has changed, why not one more thing? 

If Eddie’ll take him, he’ll never get on a fucking plane ever again. 

Eddie stops. He’s taken a deep breath, smallest wheeze hidden there in his lungs. 

“Okay,” He says, soft and distorted through the speaker. “But you aren’t fucking squatting. If you’re here for more than two weeks, I’m putting you on the lease.” 

Richie can’t help it. He cracks a grin. “If you insist.” 

“And we’re changing the dog’s name.” 

“But--” 

“No. I refuse to have a dog named Little Bitch.” 

“Sounds like a plan, Eds.” Richie, yet again, can’t wipe the stupid fucking grin from his face. 

Unknown as the immediate future is,  _ scary  _ as it seems, he can’t help but look out the window, waiting for the familiar black Cadillac Escalade and seeing something out there, through the busy noise of New York that looks a helluva lot like hope. 


	20. Chapter 20

Richie informs the Losers of this new life development in the new modern way the cool kids are doing it. He texts them. It’s a picture, snapped in a quick moment before bed. His back eases against Eddie’s chest and Little B, officially renamed Lil, pacing in a golden brown blur behind Eddie’s head. Richie rolls his free hand in a cylinder, pressing his tongue against the opposite cheek, and Eddie’s in the middle of blinking. Richie can’t help but smile as the picture appears in front of him. 

“What the fuck was that?” Eddie asks at the shutter click. 

“I’m updating our friends, dude,” Richie mutters, typing. 

“ _ What?”  _

“Did you...not want them to know yet?” 

“No, I do.”   
“Well, then,” Richie presses send and Eddie guffaws and at that moment, Eddie’s phone vibrates on the opposite nightstand. 

His chest leaves Richie’s back, and it’s cold for a second, until he returns, thumbing in the passcode. And Richie, peering over his shoulder, can’t help but cackle as his brows furrow. “ _ Seriously?”  _

“What?” Richie grins, reading back over his message. 

> _ i ditched my plane and looks like nyc just got a brand new cocksucker mfs  _

“Really?  _ That’s  _ how you tell ‘em?” 

“Hey, it’s to the point!” 

All Eddie can do is shake his head and it’s affectionate and exasperated. 

Lil finds her sleeping spot on the bed, curled in the spaces between their knees. She rests her nose on Richie’s knees, and quirks her head to the side when Richie brings the duvet up to his chin, affronted at the slide over her sleeping space. 

Richie laughs, curling his back into Eddie’s chest, “She looks so fucking offended.” 

“She should. You’re a blanket hog.” 

“You barely even know!” 

Eddie’s nose wrinkles, adorable as anything, “No, I think there’s a pattern here.” 

“Or you could just fucking suck it up and cuddle me,” Richie says, wrapping Eddie’s arms around his chest. 

Eddie sighs, loudly, and his leg moves under the blanket, petting Lil’s back with his foot, but he holds him, and for a beat they fall into silence. He kisses Richie on the side of the head, and Richie’s eyes flutter shut at the feeling, leaning in and feeling - totally and wholly - at home. 

Richie’s phone pings, there’s a subtle vibration, and he brings it up to his eyes. It’s not part of the group chat - a direct message from Stanley. 

> _ STAN THE MAN: so Eddie’s the big spoon, huh?  _

Richie smiles and types back:  _ that’s not the only way he’s big  _

Eddie, reading over his shoulder, gives Richie an ineffectual tap him upside the head. 

And, from Stan, the reply comes fairly quickly:  _ I’m blocking your number.  _

Richie sends back a winky emoji and settles back into Eddie who - despite his loud show of sighing, hasn’t moved away an inch. 

* * *

The next day, by the time Richie wakes up, he has dozens of texts from the Losers in the group chat. They’re all encouraging. All kind, all encouraging messages of  _ Congrats to u both  _ and happy faces and emojis and, they’re all so kind, Richie can finally allow himself to relax. And, finally, it’s so fucking easy. 

* * *

Of course, where one thing’s easy, everything else still has the possibility to leave things spinning. Richie spends the next week on Skype with Steve, his living room in the back of the frame, brainstorming possibilities for how they were going to do this. Richie twiddles his thumbs, asking, “Should I ask how the writers took it?” 

Steve shrugs. “The same way anyone takes getting fired.” 

“Right.” Richie looks down, feeling the weight sink down on his shoulders. He’s still not sure how responsible he should feel. Sure, he’s the one who fired them. But Los Angeles is a big fucking city. They’re writers with decent resumes in their laps. They’re bound to find something. The only thing he doesn't need to convince himself is that this is worth it. 

  
  


* * *

And, now, it’s time. It’s a big moment. Steve got Richie a segment on a New York-based web-talk show, something that’s easily embeddable on social media and widespread enough that -  _ hopefully -  _ they should be able to make up whatever audience he loses. He’s supposed to do a short five-minute set, interspersed for a short online series. He’ll come back in a week for an interview. 

It’s an experimental kind of show. Designed as though for TV, but much less formal, but they get enough views. Nobody on actual TV was interested in taking Richie for an interview, anyway. This is as official they can get, and - honestly - even this feels too big.  _ Too  _ public. 

But, it needs to happen. It’s been fucking long enough. 

It seemed like a good idea, at the  _ time.  _ But now, standing just off set, while a personal assistant hides a lavalier mic under his jacket. Steve wasn’t able to make it all the way back to the East Coast. So, it’s only Richie, the crew, the hosts, and that’s it.. It’s a far cry from the crowd at Radio City, but Richie’s stomach’s all the way up in his throat. At least, off camera in a corner, Eddie came - standing in his fucking suit jacket, quietly forking a fucking kale salad in his mouth, because he came here for Richie on his fucking lunch break. Like Richie’s a priority. Like he knows the thrum of excitement, the warmth it gives Richie to look over and see Eddie standing there while he’s stripped down and admitting himself, stripped and  _ honest  _ for the first time in his life. 

It’s a blur of directors and assistants and, before Richie knows what’s happened, he’s in front of the camera. Just him and the people on set.  _ It’s worth it, it’s worth it, it’s worth it.  _

He takes a breath and, sliding his hands from his pockets, it’s about to begin. 

“Hey everybody. I’m surprised anyone even clicked on this video. I honestly was expecting half of you to just keep scrolling, considering my new track record. I’m not sure how many of you heard, but my last show was...oh, what’s the word? Complete shit.” 

He knows it’s not good stage posture, but his free hand’s wormed its way into his pocket, where it burrows in the warmth. He has to force it out. 

“But, at least now my Wikipedia page has a section called ‘Controversy.’ That’s pretty cool.” He sighs. “And, I know you just came for the host and the show, not me, and have no idea what I’m talking about, but, uh. I was at the receiving end of some Twitter discourse. I didn’t even know that was a  _ thing. _ People have recordings of this shit now, so they can single you out for, like, the way your voice cracks or you trip or something. You just shit the bed in front of thousands of people, and then people yell at you over it.” 

He’s stalling. It’s rehearsed stalling, granted. But he hadn’t noticed how obvious it seemed when he was talking into the bathroom mirror. 

“So, I’ll debrief you all on what happened.” He can swear, even though he’s talking to an empty space, to moving bodies not actually paying attention, there’s tension.

And - fuck - he hopes this will work. 

He calls back to the sadistic hellscape that was the ‘80s. And he’ll stand by that. Shitty sewer water wasn’t any less shitty just because  _ Weekend at Bernie’s _ was in theaters. 

And he sighs. “And it kinda sucks to realize that your nostalgia ain’t worth shit. And yeah, I wouldn’t have gotten shit over that _Teen Wolf _quote back then. But - fuck \- at what cost?” 

Here it comes. 

“‘I’m not a fag, I’m a werewolf.’ You say those words, and suddenly Twitter’s down your throat. And then there are other people who are defending you and that’s really uncomfortable. But, really.” He stops. Locks eyes with Eddie. Eddie, who’s heard this before. He’s taking from life, doubly, and this could go so, so,  _ so  _ poorly. But Richie continues: “It’s a joke. Obviously. I’m not a goddamn werewolf. They aren’t even real.” 

He thinks someone’s laughed, maybe a crew member. They’ll probably cut it out in post. He’s not sure. And that’s not really the point, is it? 

“And thank fuck, because I’d be batting two for two on that one if they were.” The key light is warm, but not hot, on his face. He shrugs. “I don’t really like that word, but I’m so fucking repressed at this point that it’s still one of the first ones to come to mind -- werewolf, I mean.” 

People are moving offset. Richie tries not to let it distract his gaze, makes his eyes stay put. Tries to keep ‘em on the designated places. 

“And, just to be absolutely fucking clear, this is me coming out of the closet right now. I don’t know what I was doing in there for so long. Obviously not getting any kind of fashion sense. But, my point here is that I am super fucking gay.” 

It’s still uncomfortable, saying it out loud. But it’s getting better. Easier, every time. 

Richie goes on. “I needed to tell you this, to give you some context. Because you need to know that I’m coming from a definite authoritative perspective when I tell you that being a gay werewolf would  _ fucking suck.”  _

An anchor lifts. Richie winks off-camera, and when he looks back, the crew and the hosts are all smiling. It might be too much to ask for everything, but - in this moment, with the lights on him and the din of rolling laughter around him - he can’t help but feel like, maybe, he’s getting it. He’s just wasted all this fucking time, because it’s not stopping him. It’s not stopping anybody. 

* * *

It’s not that after the show goes online, Richie’s refreshing his mentions on Twitter over and over again or anything. But, he does thumb through the app, that evening. The news is on and Lil is lying on Eddie’s lap, Eddie under Richie’s arm, and it’s so sweet and warm and homey that Richie almost doesn’t care. It’s not that everything’s solved. He still has to go back to L.A at some point and sell his condo, bring the car over, figure out how to work in coast-to-coast limbo, but - for now - it doesn’t matter. It’s done. Richie finally knows up from down and, honestly, the weight it lifts off his shoulders, the way he can finally identify his own personal North, he can come home. Finally. And, everything else, he can figure out as it comes, standing there, next to Eddie. 

So, no. He’s not exactly,  _ looking  _ for validation as he scrolls through Twitter that night. That’s not what’s happening. He’s rebranding, after all, and maybe this could be part of the new package. 

But, that’s not to say he doesn’t let his grin widen when he sees one particular name in his mentions. 

> Tweet by  _ adrian_m: WELL WELL WELL. #trashmouth  _ [ _ www.free2vid.com/richie+tozier+starz/54s _ ](http://www.free2vid.com/richie+tozier+starz/54s) _ _

Richie, on an impulse, likes the Tweet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all she wrote! It's me. I'm the "she" here. 
> 
> Thank you all so much, everyone who's read the fic, and for all the comments and kudos and bookmarks. It means a ton to me. Whether you were here since chapter 1, when it was supposed to be 10 chapters, and made it through a doubling chapter count and two semi-lengthy hiatuses, or if you just sat down and read through just now. If you made it this far, you read the whole thing and I am so, so grateful and happy you did. I hope you liked it. So. Thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. <3 
> 
> If you want to scream with me about Richie, Eddie, Reddie, It, fanfic, fandom, movies, horror, writing, or just about your day, feel free to hit me up on Tumblr. I'm sporklift over there, as well. :)


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